by Jay Brandon
Rachel had an inkling of what Jack meant, but more to the point she took him at his word no matter what.
“All right, Jack, but what do you want me to do?” Rachel just stared as the woman started to make her way toward the side of the stage. She was harmless enough anyway. What was she going to do, stab someone with an earring? There was nothing remotely dangerous on that stage. Even the microphones were wireless. Rachel and all the other security forces had made sure there couldn’t be even an improvised weapon—
Rachel gasped. Oh, she was an idiot.
There was one new thing on that stage. One thing that hadn’t been checked out by anybody. It was deep blue with yellow fringe, and it featured an eagle with a very determined expression.
“Damn it! I’m the fool,” Rachel said, as the other two questioned her. For a moment Rachel wondered if she herself was under the influence of a post-hypnotic suggestion. But no, if she hadn’t placed the seal the executive secretary would have. Arden’s mother. Because she was a deeply-imbedded, probably longstanding functionary of the American diplomatic contingent. Which is why no one would question her now as she walked across that stage. Probably just wanted to straighten the seal, the guards would think. Or remove it. What harm could she be?
But Rachel understood. The seal was flammable. Maybe even explosive. And the woman must have a detonator, or simply a book of matches. She was up on the side of the stage now. In seconds she would be there. Maybe she was close enough already.
Rachel saw standing nearby sharpshooters who could take the woman down from here. And at least two of them would do it at a word from Rachel. She had developed that much trust in the last few days. But then everything would be shattered. The woman’s body would be examined, then the seal. The plot would be uncovered, the plot that could have destroyed seven heads of state. And the American president would be able to say he’d been warned about it in advance. His not being here would be explained. And Jack didn’t want that. She wasn’t sure why, but she believed him.
Rachel stood frozen. Arden stared at her mother. She must not have seen her in years. Rachel glanced at her, then back to the woman on the stage. Her eyes widened. Her frustration peaked. Rachel took a deep breath and closed her eyes.
Then she screamed.
Rachel was not a screamer. She seldom even raised her voice. She was known among her friends, in fact, for her repression. A raised eyebrow on Rachel’s face was the equivalent of someone else’s launching into a shouting tirade. People cringed at her mutter.
So perhaps this had been building in her for a long time. Because this was a world-class scream. It froze everyone around her, raising hairs on arms and the backs of necks. Everyone turned and stared. And because Rachel and Arden were on that slight rise, everyone saw her.
Jack heard the scream clearly through his cell phone and wondered if his old friend had lost her mind. The tension had made her snap. He started saying, “Rachel, when I said you can’t disrupt the ceremonies, what I meant was—,” but no one was listening to him.
With everyone staring, and hands reaching for guns, Rachel said quietly to Arden, “Don’t look at me. Look at her.”
Arden understood. She stood straight, as if in a spotlight, and stared across that crowded square at the woman who was now on the stage.
The woman stared back.
Rachel began stamping her feet. “Bugs,” she said loudly. “Is it an ant bed? No.” She reached down and picked up a small, befuddled lizard, holding it high, then tossing it away. “Yuck,” she said, shivered all over, and indulged in other such girlish behaviors, things she had never done in her life. She was brushing off her clothing, looking distressed. More than one man started toward her aid. Guns were eased back into holsters. Eyes rolled. Hand signals told security personnel everything was okay. Just a silly girl overreacting to local reptilian life. A few people chuckled. That was the most notice Rachel’s scream would draw. It was the kind of small, foolish event that seemed enormous for a few seconds, but wouldn’t be reported by any news outlet. Rachel quickly slipped out of sight in the crowd. Within minutes, no one would even be able to say who had screamed.
So Arden stood alone on the rise, with no one looking at her any more. No one except that woman on the stage. Their eyes remained locked. The woman put her fist to her mouth. Her eyes watered. Arden lifted one pale hand in greeting to her and the woman forgot everything else she’d been doing or planning. She hurried down from the stage and into the crowd.
Rachel started leading Arden away, over to the edge. The woman would follow. They would draw her completely out of the square. Rachel felt like a fly fisher, flicking Arden across the surface of the crowd, letting her continue to be seen. A ripple through the crowd showed the rapid advance of the executive secretary.
Rachel said into her phone, “Jack, I have to say I was brilliant. I think things are okay here now. We’ll—”
“That’s great,” Jack said quickly, as if he hadn’t harbored any doubts about her ability to handle the small problem of stopping a mass assassination without anyone’s knowing. “Just one more question, Rache. Is Professor Trimble there?”
“Professor—? No, I haven’t seen him here at all, Jack. Why? Why should he—?”
“Damn,” Jack said. “Good job. I’ll see you two later.”
And he clicked off. Moments later the woman from the American delegation caught up to them, and the way the two women threw themselves on each other, the way they clung and wept, held Rachel’s attention for minutes. She had tears in her own eyes as Arden said “Mommy” and the older woman whispered “my baby.” Obviously whatever influence or post-hypnotic suggestion had been guiding the woman had fallen away completely at her first sight in years of her child. They didn’t offer each other any explanations, they wouldn’t start talking for some time to come, but they hugged and whispered and cried. It was one of the sweetest moments Rachel had ever seen. She just stood and watched, a spectator to familial joy.
When she tried to call Jack back ten minutes later she couldn’t reach him.
CHAPTER 13
The White House, the next day
The desk in the Oval Office, as well as the coffee table, were scattered with newspapers from around the world, including the U.S. They all carried that same photo, of the summit leaders gathered around an empty chair adorned with the American seal. That’s what the President of the United States had become on the world stage: an empty chair.
“Nothing happened,” the president said. “The summit went off brilliantly. Agreements have been reached. There are new statesmen today.”
“You could go now,” Dennis Wilkerson said. “There’s still lots of work to be done. Everyone would be—”
The president glared him to silence. The glare was more effective because only the two of them were in the room at the moment. When the President started speaking, it was obviously a speech that had been building in him for hours.
“You made me look like a fool on the world stage. Worse, in front of my own people, at a time of the greatest national crisis we have ever faced. You are fired. You will not be allowed to take anything from your office. You will be escorted out of the building and to your apartment where Secret Service agents will watch you pack and take you to the airport. If you are lucky, I will not have your plane blown up in the air. You have one hour to get out of town.”
“Sir! I can still be of value to you. I have contacts no one else has. Secret information—”
“Who? Name one source.”
The NSA thought of his PlayStation2, smashed to pieces on Air Force One. “I’m sorry. I cannot reveal my—”
The President pressed a button on his desk. Two men in very black suits entered the Oval Office. “I was wrong,” the President said. “You have thirty minutes.”
Dennis Wilkerson left under escort, almost whimpering. The President didn’t even watch his departure. He was on the intercom to his assistant. “Get me the chief of staff and the secretary
of state. Now.”
Twenty-six Days Later
All the president’s men tried to spin it as a continuation of the summit, this time on American soil. Their motto was “America: where the world comes to finalize agreements,” but no one picked it up. It sounded too much like the work of a committee.
They couldn’t get all the other seven heads of state. They claimed to have countries to run. Surprisingly, the Russian and French presidents agreed to come, while the British and Israeli heads begged off, though promising to come on another occasion.
So the American President’s “peace summit” looked more like a press conference, with the Russian and French presidents smiling behind him, the men clasping hands in three-way clenches, so that the photo looked as if the President had managed to resolve hostilities between France and Russia.
But importantly, it was a coming out party. The riots, the successful summit, Dennis Wilkerson’s making him look like a coward, all had convinced President Witt that his isolationist policy had been wrong. This occasion in Virginia was going to amount to his creeping back out onto the world stage, and he wanted someone holding his hand while he did that.
This was exactly what the Circle would have arranged.
The location was a small college, Galt University, which was actually the alma mater of the Secretary of State, who had suggested the location. The area was semi-rural, semi-suburban, or “bucolic,” as the school billed it, not too far from Washington but not in the shadow of U. Va. Not many presidents would have the nerve to make a major policy announcement with Mr. Jefferson looking over their shoulders. Galt College was perfect: small enough for security to be controlled closely, stately old buildings including the auditorium where the press conference would be held, enthusiastic students, and professors who had told those students that their institution was about to become a historic site. “The place where America reclaimed the world stage,” more than one of them had put it. They hoped this President was up to the job of marking the occasion.
Security offered some problems, because the foreign presidents insisted on having their security forces involved, and the President’s handlers insisted on a big audience for the opening press conference. Students and professors and journalists had credentials, including foreign journalists, but they all had to be checked, usually by more than one security person, and this occasion had been put together so hastily the Secret Service hadn’t had a lot of time to inspect the auditorium. They managed to keep out suspicious strangers, but not the determined assassin with visiting-professor status.
Professor Don Trimble looked so much the part of a professor—which he had been playing for three decades—that hardly anyone bothered to check his ID. He carried a notebook, had a pipe in his mouth, his thinning blond-gray hair was disheveled, his tweed jacket had patches on the elbows. He took so long to find his ID that the impatient guard, a university cop, finally just pushed him through the metal detector. He cleared, that was good enough.
The professor made his way through the crowd, smiling and stopping to chat with colleagues, nod to students. The press conference was due to start in three minutes, which meant he had all the time in the world. He strolled around, enmeshed himself in the crowd, then made his way out to the lobby. There were security people scattered around, some of them obvious, a few not, but they didn’t know the place nearly as well as Trimble did. Behind the box office was a nondescript unmarked door. Trimble made his way to it, not looking around, opened the door with a key, and slipped inside. He waited for his eyes to adjust to the semi-darkness, then started up the narrow stairs inside.
The Secret Service had not entirely neglected this staircase, though. At the top a young man in a nylon jacket turned and looked at the professor in surprise, reaching under his jacket.
“I’m sorry,” Trimble said in his befuddled way, “I’ve got some extra students and wanted to see if there’s any room up here in the extra balcony.”
This was less a balcony than a large private box, above and to the left side of the floor of the auditorium and the stage. It had been reserved for foreign dignitaries who weren’t coming, but no one had bothered to un-reserve it.
“Sir, I’m sorry, we’re not allowing anyone to be seated up here. It’s too un-secured a location. If you’ll just—”
The guard was holding out his hands, because the professor was such a befuddled type that he kept advancing as if he didn’t understand the language. Plus the guy had the obvious appearance of someone who’d been telling people what to do for so long that he didn’t think rules applied to him.
“I understand,” Trimble said in his hazy way. “Plus I’m having a problem with this thing…”
He was fumbling with his pipe. The guard looked down at it, a little surprised the professor had been allowed to bring it in, but the people downstairs were pressed for time and the pipe looked as if it belonged in Trimble’s hands or mouth. As the guard looked down, Trimble brought the pipe up, pressed a switch underneath, and shot a tiny dart into the guard’s throat.
The guard almost got out the syllable “Uh,” but the poison was very fast-acting. Curare. Trimble had always wanted to use it. It paralyzed everything, including the lungs, so that the victim was immobilized as he choked to death, trapped inside the shell of his no-longer-functioning body. Trimble looked curiously into the man’s eyes and saw the panic there. What Trimble had always wondered, in his scholarly way, was whether the victim of curare poisoning went mad with fear before dying. Looking into the security guard’s eyes, he thought the answer was yes.
Trimble eased the man down into a seat, so he was still in a way guarding this private box. Then the professor looked down at the auditorium from his vantage point. The seats below were completely filled, while would-be audience members still clogged the aisles and the space at the back of the auditorium. That wasn’t supposed to happen. The seats had supposedly been precisely allocated. But with the presidential staffs of three countries doing favors for friends, they had overbooked. The floor was a solid carpet of people.
Onstage the show was just getting started. A staff person came out and checked the podium and microphone. There was a bulletproof plastic shield in front of the podium, as always. From this vantage point Don Trimble could see the three presidents in the wings, chatting for a moment as they awaited their entrance.
The professor’s watery blue eyes hardened. A vein at his temple began to pulse. Even his flaky pale skin seemed to be melting away, revealing sharper features. Trimble wasn’t in disguise, but he was shedding the look of indecision he’d worn for years.
But Trimble didn’t stay where he was standing. The box wasn’t his destination. It was too obvious, too John Wilkes Booth. Trimble went back out into the small hallway outside and found the even more secret staircase that went higher.
Behind another nondescript door, this staircase was so tiny he had to turn sideways to go up it. At the top of the stairs was a small catwalk, a space for lighting. The professor walked briskly to a panel on the opposite wall, a panel that looked like the others, but when the professor put a tiny key into a hole two feet above it the panel dropped open. Inside was a sniper’s rifle.
Trimble quickly assembled the rifle, including its silencer, while listening and watching. On this catwalk he could stand up straight, but barely. Banks of small spotlights threatened his head at every step. He had a perfect view of the stage, including the wings if he moved to either side. This workspace had been built when the building was originally put up a hundred years ago, when a student would have to position these spotlights by hand. Everything was automated now, but the space remained.
Someone from the president’s staff came out onto the stage, took the podium, and did a little preliminary throat-clearing, introductory remarks to which no one listened. The crowd’s noise grew even louder. Closer at hand, Professor Trimble heard what he’d been listening for: footsteps coming up those narrow stairs.
This time he wasn’t subtle
and didn’t do the befuddled-professor look. No time. The Secret Service agent’s eyes hadn’t had time to adjust. The professor knew that if he stood still he’d be almost invisible in the gloom of this small space.
Sure enough, the agent in his black garb stuck his head up, peered around, then said into the air, “All clear. I’ll check on Stanley again and be back. Craig out.”
As soon as “Craig” was off the air, Professor Trimble shot him. It was a perfect shot, right in the throat, making the man mute before killing him. The agent gasped for air, fell to his knees, then rolled over and didn’t move again.
Trimble checked his watch. There wasn’t much time now. That death would bring other agents to check on the missing one within minutes. But they’d all be preoccupied right now, because the President of the United States was taking the stage.
He strode boldly across—“bold” was the new watchword in the White House—unaccompanied for the moment by the other presidents or any of his own staff. The audience applauded, which was less a sign of approval than gratitude that the show was starting, and the President gave one broad wave. His face remained serious, though.
Trimble moved into position. From up here he could send a bullet either over or around that plastic shield. In moments he would make history in a way the Circle never had. Nor would they have approved. That’s why a new Circle had been needed. One that was not only decisive but prepared to act. Not dropping hints any more, not even subtly guiding others to kill. Once in a while a bolder move was needed. Don Trimble had believed that for a long time before he realized there were others who thought as he did. Once he’d been invited into the inner circle, he’d joined with alacrity.
Their inner security was so tight he wasn’t even sure who the other members were. As with the larger Circle, each member operated fairly independently. So Trimble had been on hand in Salzburg, knowing there was a plan afoot and ready to help out. But as soon as Jack Driscoll had shown up there, Trimble had been afraid things would go awry, as they obviously had. Trimble had quietly slipped away before the end, knowing there would be a next act.
