James Grippando - Born to Run

“Drop your weapon!”

“I don’t have no weapon!”

“Drop it!”

The man shrieked and jumped on Jack, causing them both to tumble down the granite steps. Jack braced himself for a gunshot from the attacker or even a barrage of firepower from the FBI. Rather than pummeling Jack or trying to hurt him, however, the man was clutching him out of sheer terror. Andie’s voice was in Jack’s ear, but she was drowned out by his attacker’s panicky screams and a chorus of commands from undercover agents. One agent finally managed to pry Jack away from the wrestling match. It took three or four agents to bring the man under control.

“Don’t move!” they told him.

“I didn’t do nothing!” the man shouted back, and he started rattling off something in Spanish.

Another agent helped Jack to the bench, and it took him another moment to realize that it was Andie. She’d rushed over from the hidden command center on the mall.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“Yeah, fine.”

“You did great.”

“If you say so.”

Jack watched the team of agents lift the man to his feet. He was wearing an old navy peacoat, tattered blue jeans, and tennis shoes that didn’t match. His hair was bundled up in a lumpy, matted mess beneath a knit cap. It was hard to tell when he’d last shaved and bathed, but it wasn’t in the last week or probably even in the last month. His hands were cuffed behind his back, and he was no longer fighting back, but he wouldn’t shut up.

“Muggles! Harry, I’m surrounded by muggles!”

He was talking to Harry Potter, Jack realized, not Harry Swyteck. The rant continued as the FBI took him away.

Jack looked at Andie, and she back at him. For a moment, it seemed like a standoff to see who would speak first. Finally, she broke the silence.

“Strange world out there, isn’t it?”

“Stranger than it appears, muggle.”

“What do you mean?”

Jack glanced toward the base of the stairs, where a pair of agents was struggling to stuff their suspect into the back of an FBI sedan.

“That accent,” said Jack. “He’s obviously Hispanic. The guy who spoke to me on the telephone had some kind of accent, but it was totally different.”

“You’re saying they’re different people?”

Jack took another look. One of the agents was cursing and wiping his hands on the grass. The guy had apparently soiled his pants to make the job of law enforcement that much more unpleasant.

“I’d bet my life on it,” said Jack.

A crime-scene photographer approached. A team of specialists had already cordoned off the entrance to the museum with police tape and was collecting evidence.

“Agent Henning,” the photographer said. “Thought you might want to see this.”

“What is it?” said Andie.

“We bagged and tagged the original evidence. This is a photo of what was inside the envelope he was carrying.”

Jack didn’t ask for permission to see it. He peered over Andie’s shoulder and checked out the image on the digital camera’s LCD display.

It was a photograph of a handwritten message.

I told you to come alone , it read.

Before Jack could say anything, Andie turned and ran down the steps. Jack followed. They caught up with the sedan just before it pulled away. She flung open the door.

“Who gave you this?”

The man’s eyes were like saucers. “That’s what I been trying to tell you! Some old man paid me fifty bucks, told me to walk up to the guy at the top of the steps and say, ‘This is for you.’”

“What did he look like?”

“A muggle! He looked like a muggle!”

Andie told the driver, “Take him to headquarters. Set up for questioning.”

The driver nodded. Andie closed the door, and the car pulled away.

“You believe him?” said Jack.

“I do,” she said, as her gaze drifted toward the mall, as if she sensed that they were still being watched. “We just caught ourselves a decoy.”

It was almost midnight when Jack and Andie finally sat down for dinner with Harry Swyteck. The hotel’s main dining room was closed, so they took a table in the bar, where the bartender and two lonely businessmen were watching the news on television. It was one of those dark, cherry-paneled rooms with coffered ceilings and red velvet draperies that made Jack think of nineteenth-century robber barons feasting on caviar and smoking cigars while trying to decide which congressman to buy next. As they settled into leather wing chairs, Harry seemed glad to be away from the constant hound of the media, and Jack was equally pleased to see Secret Service agents at a nearby table. Protection had kicked in with the nomination, but after a day like today, not even Andie-an FBI agent-could hazard a guess as to how many agents were assigned to the nominee.

“My apologies,” said the waiter. “But our bar menu is quite limited at this hour.”

“In that case, three cognacs,” said Harry.

Harry’s Senate confirmation hearing was scheduled to commence in ten days, but that announcement had been lost in the day’s events. The FBI had given Jack strict orders not to speak to the media about the ongoing investigation, but that wasn’t enough to keep the networks from making him a central part of the night’s lead story-which was playing out again on the TV behind the bar:

“A tense scene unfolded outside the Smithsonian this afternoon, as undercover agents from the FBI overpowered and arrested a man in connection with what White House sources are calling ‘a serious and credible threat against President Keyes.’ With more on the story, including an exclusive report on the key role of Harry Swyteck’s son in today’s arrest, is White House reporter Paulette Sparks-”

The bartender hit the remote, switching from cable news to ESPN.

Harry said, “How is it that every news station on the planet has the same exclusive report?”

“Politically correct journalism,” said Andie. “The inclusive exclusive.”

Harry glanced at the hockey game on the TV screen, but today’s headlines were still clearly on his mind. “So, how does it feel to be a hero, son?”

Jack shook his head. “This was supposed to be your show, not mine.”

“Well, from now on, it’s a two-man show.”

“What do you mean?”

“It was the president’s suggestion, and I think it’s a good one. For the congressional hearings, he would like to see you seated beside me as my lead counsel.”

“Are you serious?”

“Dead serious. What do you think of that, Andie?”

“I think…that’s up to Jack.”

“I don’t know a thing about congressional hearings.”

“No worries. You’ll have teams of the best lawyers in America backing you up.”

“So unlike Ollie North’s lawyer, I guess I am a potted plant.”

“Not at all. Look, I’m not going to pretend that there isn’t a public relations component to this decision. Plenty of ink was spilled in the press about our disagreements when I was governor, and making you my lawyer is a very public way of putting those issues to bed once and for all. Beyond that, you’re my son, and you’re a great lawyer. Why shouldn’t you represent me?”

The waiter brought their cognac, but just the sight of it had Harry yawning uncontrollably.

“I’m beat,” said Harry. “I’ll leave you two alone and enjoy this in my room. The plan is to do congressional role-playing tomorrow and get me ready for the hot seat. So don’t stay up too late, Jack.”

“I didn’t say yes,” said Jack.

“You will. Sleep on it. I’ll meet you in the lobby at nine.”

They said good night, and the Secret Service agents followed Harry to the lobby. Jack cast his gaze toward Andie. Even at this late hour, she was the proverbial sight for sore eyes. Jack liked her in sweaters, and he didn’t often see her wearing them in Miami.