Стюарт Вудс - Choppy Water

The colonel was at his desk in his study when she entered. “You wanted me?”

“What were you doing on the hilltop?” he asked.

“Enjoying the view. It’s quite a climb up there.”

“Yes, it is. Do you have a cell phone, other than the one you turned in?”

“No,” she said.

“Grab the desk and spread ’em,” he said.

She assumed the position and tried to be patient while he patted down every inch of her, spending extra time at her breasts and crotch.

“Well, there’s no cell reception out here, anyway,” he said. “Except at the hilltop.”

“I wouldn’t know about that,” she said.

He opened a desk drawer. “Which phone is yours?”

“The white iPhone,” she replied, and he handed it to her.

“There’s no Wi-Fi here, unless I turn it on, which I do a couple of times a day to check e-mail.”

“Mostly, I get spam anyway,” she said, tucking the phone in a pocket.

“Don’t we all?”

“If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go take a nap,” she said.

“No lunch?”

“Elroy made me a sandwich for my hike.”

“See you at dinner then.”

She went back to her room and turned on her iPhone. She found an e-mail from a box with her dead father’s name on it.

Mom got your card, but she complained about not being able to read your handwriting. Next time, print block letters.

Bill Wright and Tom Blake sat in an empty cubicle in the Secret Service’s small office space, on a lower level in the White House.

Tom replayed his recording from Elizabeth.

“Jesus, that’s terrible,” Bill said. “Is that all you got?”

“I’ve got some tech people working to see if they can improve it,” Tom said, “but I’m doubtful. If it had been an e-mail, we might have a shot at putting it together, but I don’t see how they could do that with a voice message.”

“Well, I heard something about an apartment and a roof and a garden,” Bill said.

“Yeah, I got that, too. Maybe they’re going to shoot from a rooftop?”

Bill went to a cabinet and got out a large, rolled-up sheet of paper. “What if, as we suspected, the rifle at the Hay-Adams was a kind of decoy, designed to waste our time?” He unrolled the paper and pinned it to a message board in the office. It was a satellite shot of the White House and the surrounding area. He pinned a sheet of clear plastic over it and found a grease pencil. “Here’s the Hay-Adams,” he said, drawing a circle around it. “But I don’t see an apartment building in either direction from it.”

“No, there’s the Chamber of Commerce building and a lot of courts and other government buildings,” Tom replied, “but there’s no building that would house apartments.”

“This just doesn’t make any sense,” Bill said. “God, I wish she’d had better cell service.”

“Maybe we’d do better looking out the window we were worried about,” Tom said.

Bill picked up a phone. “This is Agent Wright. Are the family quarters occupied at the moment?” He listened. “Please ring up there and say that Assistant Director Blake of the FBI and I are coming up, and let the agent on duty know, too.” He unpinned the map and rolled it up. “Come on,” he said.

The two men walked up to the main floor of the White House and found the elevator to the family quarters. They walked out of the elevator into a broad hallway with a seating area at one end. A Secret Service agent stood at the front door of the quarters.

The agent was unknown to Bill, so both men handed him their identification before being admitted to the quarters. “Is the president in the residence?” Bill asked the agent.

“No, sir. She’s making a speech somewhere. There’s just the president-elect and a Mr. Barrington. Last time I checked she was in her temporary office, next to the president’s study.”

“Right,” Bill said. “This way, Tom.”

Bill Wright rapped on the door.

“Come in!” A woman’s voice.

He opened the door. Holly Barker was sitting at a large desk, its top obscured by stacks of bound documents.

“What can I do for you, Bill?” she asked.

“Ma’am, this is Tom Blake, assistant director of the FBI for criminal investigations.”

“Hello, Tom.”

“Hello, ma’am.”

“We’d like to take a look outside your window,” Bill said.

“Help yourself. Am I in the way?”

“I’ll let you know in a minute.”

The two men went and stood by the window, which was made of a thick plate glass. And between two layers, a fine wire mesh could be detected.

Tom rapped on the window with his class ring, which, he reflected, was about all it was good for. “Is this going to stop a bullet?” he asked.

“We believe so,” Bill said, “but it was installed before my time, so I haven’t seen any test results.”

“A high-powered rifle’s bullet?” Tom asked.

“Same answer.”

“Ma’am,” Tom said. “May I sit in your chair for a moment?”

Holly rose and stepped aside.

Bill unrolled the satshot and oriented it properly. “Okay,” he said. “There would be the possibility of a hit from anyplace we can see out the window.” He marked the limits on the satshot.

“Everything I can see from here,” Tom said, “with two exceptions, looks like government to me.”

Bill looked out the window and compared it with the map. “I agree. The two exceptions are the Hay-Adams Hotel and an Episcopal church.” He pointed to both on the map.

Tom checked the view again, then returned to the map. “What’s this building next to the church?”

“The rectory, I think.”

“I’m a Baptist. What happens in a rectory?”

“Church offices, maybe a residence or two.”

“There’s a row of identical windows along the top floor that could be individual rooms or small apartments,” Tom said.

“Maybe for staff or priests or other employees.”

“What’s behind the rectory?”

Bill checked and tapped the satshot with a finger. “A garden.”

“What we can hear on the tape is about an apartment where they’ve paid two months’ rent.”

“Agreed.”

“And we agree that there are no other residential buildings within rifle range of that window except for the rectory?”

“We do.”

“Then let’s go take a look at it,” Tom said.

“We’re sorry to have disturbed you, ma’am,” Bill said. “Would you mind if we relocate your desk? It’s for your personal safety.”

“Anywhere you like.”

“On the other side of the building would be nice,” Tom muttered.

“Not possible,” Bill said. “Give me a hand with this.”

“Where is it going?”

“All the way over there in that corner. I’m afraid, ma’am, that won’t leave you with much of a view.”

“Nor for the shooter,” Holly replied. “I like it.”

The desk, with its load of documents was very heavy, but they eventually managed to slide it across the carpet and into position.

“There,” Bill said.

Holly pushed her chair over to the desk and sat down. “I can’t see a thing outside the window.”

“Good,” Tom said.

“Tom,” Bill said. “Does the FBI have some sort of a department that could put a dummy in a chair near the window?”

“Yes. It’s called the Department of Special Services.”

“Make her a tall redhead,” Bill said.

Tom got out his phone. “No service,” he said.

“That’s because of the wire mesh in the plate glass.”

“You can use a house phone in the living room,” Holly said. “The White House operator can connect you with any phone in the world.”

“That’ll do,” Tom said, and they left her alone, closing the door behind them.