Stephen Leather - The Long shot

Both men shook their heads. “Can’t say the name rings a bell,” said Tom.

Billy leant forward conspiratorially. “Was he one of the boys?” he asked. He moved back and held up a hand. “Not that I’m prying, yez understand. It’s just that sometimes we have visitors who are a mite flexible about their names and origins, if yez get my drift.”

“Aye, I know what yer mean,” said Joker. “Better forget I asked. The telephone number he gave me has been disconnected, so I guess he’s moved on.” He stayed drinking and chatting with the two men until two-thirty, then wished them well and headed back to Manhattan. On the way to Filbin’s he used his Visa card in an automatic teller machine, withdrawing another $300 and slipping it into his wallet.

Cole Howard’s phone rang. “Agent Howard?” asked a crisp authoritative voice.

“Speaking,” said Howard. He had the photographs of the snipers spread out on his desk in front of him.

“My name’s Bob Sanger, I’m head of the Secret Service’s Intelligence Division. I’ve just been speaking to your boss; he said we should make contact.”

“Sounds good to me,” said Howard. “Where are you?”

Howard heard Sanger snort as if suppressing a laugh. “At the moment I’m about thirty thousand feet above San Bernardino en route to Andrews Air Force Base,” he said. Howard was surprised. The line was perfectly clear as if the call had been placed from the next room. “Can you get to the airport by ten-thirty?”

“Andrews?” said Howard, confused. He heard the snort again.

“No, Sky Harbour International,” he said, referring to the main international airport in Phoenix.

Howard looked at his wristwatch. It was just after 10 a.m. “Sure,” he said. He’d been assuming that he’d have to fly out to Washington to meet with the Secret Service representative. The opportunity of seeing him in Phoenix was a bonus.

“Come along to the General Aviation terminal, ask for me there,” said Sanger.

“Which plane will you be on?” Howard asked, reaching for a pen.

Sanger made the soft snorting sound again. “Don’t worry, Agent Howard,” he said. “You’ll have no trouble finding us.”

The line went dead, leaving Howard wondering what the Secret Service man had meant. He collected his car from the office parking lot and drove quickly to the airport, parking in front of the General Aviation terminal. As the electronic doors hissed open to allow him into the terminal building, he saw a line of airport workers and passengers standing in front of the large picture window which overlooked the tarmac. As he walked up to them he realised with a jolt what they were looking at. Standing alone was a majestic Jumbo Jet, resplendent in a blue and white livery with the gold and black presidential seal on its belly. Air Force One. The spectators stood in silence, awed by the glistening symbol of Presidential authority. The plane was in pristine condition as if it had just rolled off the Boeing assembly line. Howard stood behind two baggage handlers and watched as a team of overalled workers busied themselves refuelling the jet. They were being supervised by two men in dark suits wearing sunglasses and carrying walkie-talkies.

Howard frowned as he studied the plane. The President had no official visit scheduled for Phoenix that he knew of, and the FBI would have been informed as a matter of course. He headed for the doors which led to the tarmac. His way was barred by two more Secret Service agents, wearing matching sunglasses and black suits. Howard identified himself before reaching slowly into his jacket to pull out his ID. Both agents tensed and the one on the right, the younger of the two, began to move his hand towards his waist. Howard smiled and slowed his movements, opening the wallet and showing his FBI credentials.

The older agent carefully checked the ID. “Are you carrying, sir?” he asked. Howard shook his head. The agents relaxed and stepped to the side. The younger pushed open the door for Howard, his face unsmiling.

“Bob Sanger’s waiting for you on board, sir,” said the older agent. “Have a nice day.”

As Howard walked across the tarmac to the gleaming jet, he heard the younger agent talking into his walkie-talkie. There were half a dozen agents standing at various points around the plane and several looked at Howard as if they were checking him out. They had earpieces from which wires disappeared into the collars of their jackets. A gust of wind blew the back of one agent’s jacket up around his waist and Howard caught a glimpse of a machine pistol in a nylon holster in the small of his back. Even Howard, an eight-year veteran of the FBI, felt nervous under the scrutiny of the stone-faced men in dark suits.

The giant plane epitomised the power and the glory of the United States of America, both in its sheer size and its technological superiority, and it pulled at his insides the way the National Anthem and the raising of the Stars and Stripes always did. It was more than patriotism, more than pride, it was an instinctive reaction that he couldn’t have controlled if he’d wanted to. He felt as if he should salute the plane, or bow his head in reverence.

A flight of stairs led up to the main hatch and another Secret Service man stood at the bottom, a walkie-talkie in his hand. He motioned for Howard to go up the steps. They seemed to go on for ever and Howard began to truly appreciate the immense size of the plane. Yet another agent waited at the top of the stairs and he led Howard down a corridor to a large meeting room with eight white leather seats surrounding a boat-shaped mahogany table. A man in his mid-forties was sitting in one of the high-backed chairs, a walkie-talkie and a computer printout on the table in front of him. Unlike the rest of the Secret Service agents, he wore a pair of delicate pince-nez eyeglasses and had hung his jacket over the back of his chair. As Howard entered the room the man looked over the top of his glasses like a college professor disturbed in the middle of correcting papers. He smiled and removed the spectacles. “Agent Howard?” he asked. Howard nodded and the man stood up and shook his hand, introducing himself as Bob Sanger. He waved Howard to one of the empty seats as the agent closed the door, leaving the two men alone.

“Is the President here?” Howard asked, his voice almost a whisper.

Sanger smiled and shook his head. “No, he’s on the back-up plane today. This is SAM 28000, it’s been in for repairs to one of the communication systems, so the President has been using SAM 29000 for the last few weeks. They’re identical, though. In fact, right now the President is probably sitting in the duplicate of my chair.”

Howard looked around the plush room. “I can’t believe I’m having a meeting on Air Force One.”

Sanger sat back in his chair. “Strictly speaking, it’s only Air Force One when the President is on board. At the moment this is just a Boeing 747-200B with a presidential paint job. The President is due to visit Los Angeles in a couple of weeks and we’ve been putting the security teams there through their paces. As you can imagine, we’re still nervous about LA, after what happened in 1992.”

Howard nodded. He looked out of one of the windows and saw the refuelling teams move away from the plane. One of the men in overalls waved goodbye to a Secret Service agent but he was ignored. Several of the agents walked up the stairs to the plane, talking into their radios.

“We’re dropping into Dallas for a threat assessment meeting with the head of security there, and then we’re onto Washington,” Sanger continued. He saw the look of alarm flash across Howard’s face. “Don’t worry, Agent Howard, you’re not coming with us. The pilot’s under instructions to hold until you leave the plane. Do you want a coffee?” Howard shook his head. “Okay,” continued Sanger, “let’s get down to business. Jake tells me you think there’s going to be an attack on the President.”