Стюарт Вудс - Choppy Water

Tom picked up a phone on a sofa-side table and made his call.

The two men sat in the office of the bishop, who was regarding them askance. “You want to search the rectory?”

“That is correct, sir. It’s a matter of safety for the White House.”

The bishop looked at the two IDs on his desk. “Who are you looking for?”

“A man with a high-powered rifle, but he won’t have arrived yet.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” He spoke to his assistant. “Eric, please find the keys to the rooms on the upper floors of the rectory and escort these gentlemen there for a tour. Make sure they don’t steal the silver.” He handed back the IDs. “Good luck to you.”

“What’s on the upper floors?” Bill asked Eric as the elevator rose.

“Top floor is sort of a dormitory that used to house visiting high-school kids who did summer internships. It isn’t used anymore. There are a few single rooms, as well, for their teachers. One floor down is busy office space.”

“Let’s see the top floor,” Bill said.

As they got out of the elevator a maid stepped out of a door, towing a mop bucket behind her.

“Miss, which rooms did you clean?” Tom asked.

“All of the singles. We do it once a week, though they’re little used.”

“Are they locked?” Eric asked.

“No, sir.”

“There are three furnished,” Eric said. “Which do you want to see?”

“All of them,” Tom replied

The three were identically furnished with a bed, a desk, a padded chair, and two lamps. There were fresh towels in the bathrooms.

“Which of the rear windows in the dormitory have views of the garden?” Bill asked.

“I suppose the ones across from these rooms.”

Tom tried the windows in all three rooms. Only one opened freely. The others were nailed shut.

“There used to be an air conditioner in that window,” Eric said, “before the whole place got new ductwork.”

Bill walked across the dormitory and found one window that would open. “Nice view of the garden,” he said when he returned.

“I noticed locks on the doors of the three rooms,” Tom said. “Where are the keys?”

Eric held up a bunch of, perhaps two dozen keys. “Help yourself.”

“Okay,” Tom said, “let’s lock the rooms on either side. We can put men in both. He’ll have only one option and one working window.”

“I’d call that boxing him in,” Bill said.

Bill Wright and Tom Blake sat in Holly’s temporary office and watched as two FBI technicians worked. They set up a card table in front of the window and placed the dummy, dressed in a white blouse and a red wig, in a chair between the window and the table. They borrowed several thick documents from Holly’s desk and arranged them on the card table, then placed the dummy’s left hand on an open document and her right hand, holding a pencil, on another document. They set a lamp on the table and plugged it into a receptacle under the window.

“Would you turn on that light switch, please, Mr. Blake?” the tech in charge asked, pointing to a switch beside the door. Bill did so, and the light came on. Also, the head of the dummy, which had been pointed down at the open document, turned to its right, and its right hand made small movements, as if writing.

“Wonderful!” Bill said “From a distance it will be indistinguishable from the lady herself.”

“I agree,” Tom said. “Thank you, gentlemen.”

The two techs closed their tool kits and prepared to depart.

“How will we turn it on tomorrow morning?” Tom asked.

“We’re not going to have access at dawn,” Bill replied.

“Why don’t you just leave the light switch on?” the lead tech said. “It’s a fresh lightbulb; it won’t burn out overnight.”

“Good idea,” Bill said

The two men took their tools and left. Wright and Blake departed with them, leaving the light switch on.

The dummy continued doing its work.

At three AM, they circled the block, checking for police, then stopped at the gate to the church gardens. “Can you handle the lock?” the driver asked Eugene.

“I can handle just about any lock,” Eugene replied. “Honk, if you spot a cop.” He got out of the car, took his case, and walked to the gate, perhaps thirty feet away. He removed an instrument that looked like a small electric drill from his case, inserted one end in the lock, and opened it in under twenty seconds. He closed his case and let himself into the garden, then applied a piece of duct tape to the lock’s bolt, so that it wouldn’t lock him in. That done, he walked up the stone path to the rear of the rectory and unlocked the rear door by the same means.

Inside, he made sure he could open it without a key, then walked to the elevator and took it to the top floor. He was surprised to find two of the single rooms locked, but the third one was not. He pulled on a pair of soft, thin leather gloves and let himself into the room, then set his case on the bed and opened it.

The case contained the dismantled rifle, scope, and silencer; his lock pick; and a coil of nylon rope with a half-hook at one end, the whole length tied in a series of knots. He walked across the dormitory room, opened the unlocked window, laid the half-hook over the sill and tossed the rope out into the night air. He watched to see that the other end nearly touched the ground.

He returned to the room, locked the door behind him, and then practiced assembling and disassembling the rifle as quickly as possible, something he had rehearsed many times in his room. He set up the folding tripod, attached the rifle, and sighted across the avenue to the White House, where a single window of the family quarters was lit. To his astonishment, the woman was sitting at a desk, going through a document and making notes.

“Good God, an insomniac,” he said.

He checked his equipment again, then it occurred to him: Why wait? His chances of pulling this off and getting away were better now than in the morning. He got out his cell phone and speed-dialed a number.

“Yes?”

“Conditions are favorable at this hour,” he said.

“Now?” came the astonished reply.

“I repeat: conditions are favorable now. Plans change. Position the vehicle.”

“As you wish.”

“How long do you need?”

“Three minutes.”

“Ring once when you’re in position.”

“Understood.”

Both men hung up.

Eugene made his final preparations, then sighted through the rifle again. She was still at work. He positioned himself behind the rifle, took aim, and waited.

The cell phone in his breast pocket vibrated once. Eugene squeezed off the first shot. He saw the window star; it would be much weakened now. He squeezed off the second shot, saw the window explode and the woman’s hair move. Then he saw a red flashing light under the eaves near the window and heard a bell start to ring rhythmically. The shattering of the window had tripped an alarm system. He wasn’t going to bother with changing into pajamas; he had to get out now .

Quickly and smoothly, he closed the window, disassembled the rifle, packing each piece into its place, closed the case, unlocked the door and walked quickly to the open window in the dorm. He looked out the window, chose a thicket of bushes, and dropped the case. He saw it disappear into the shrubs.

He straddled the windowsill, checked that the half-hook was holding, then climbed out the window and slid down the rope, controlling his descent with the knots. Once on the ground, he flicked the rope twice; the half-hook popped off the windowsill and fell to the ground. He retrieved his case from the bushes, tucked the rope inside it, and ran for the gate, removing the duct tape as he left. The car was waiting.