Стюарт Вудс - Choppy Water

Eugene tossed his case into the rear compartment of the SUV. “No more than thirty miles an hour,” he said. The driver pulled away and drove, unobserved, through the empty streets.

At three AM, Bill Wright was dressed and having toast and coffee in his kitchen. He and Blake were meeting at the rectory at four AM. His phone rang. “Wright,” he said.

“Code 101 at location zero,” a voice said.

Wright was stunned. “What damage?”

“To be determined.”

Wright put away his phone and ran for his car. The second call came as he was backing out of his garage.

“It’s Tom. Did you hear?”

“I’m on my way. I’ll meet you there.” He hung up and switched on his flashing lights.

The White House gate guard waved him through quickly. He drove to the portico, got out, and ran for the elevator.

Tom Blake was already in the room, along with two uniformed Secret Service guards. Holly Barker and the president and the first gentleman were also in the room, all of them dressed in nightclothes and robes.

Bill said good evening to them, then walked to the window and inspected it. There was a hole the size of a softball in the two layers of glass. “Upgrade needed here,” he said to nobody in particular.

He bent over and inspected the dummy. “Two shots to the head.”

“Then I must be deceased,” Holly said.

Colonel Sykes was sound asleep when he was awakened by the telephone. The bedside clock read 3:33 AM, and the shoot was to take place after seven AM. Something had gone wrong. “Hello?”

“Confirm project has been successfully completed,” Eugene’s voice said.

“You must be confused,” Sykes said. “Too early.”

“Subject is an insomniac. Favorable conditions prevailed earlier than planned.” He hung up.

Sykes sat on his bed, his heart pounding. He had made it happen, just as he had planned, only sooner. He looked up the number of Eugene’s burner phone and dialed it.

“Yes?”

“Confirm successful completion.”

“Confirmed. It was perfect.”

“Listen to me: don’t arrive carrying the package. Leave it where you can find it again. Also, any relevant clothing. Do not make your final turn if there is any vehicle in sight.”

“Understood,” Eugene said, then hung up.

Sykes breathed a sigh of relief and began to calm down. They would get rid of the rifle and tools and not lead anyone to the compound. All that remained was to get his people to bed, and it would be over.

There was a knock at his door. “Wade?” Bess was awake.

“Come in.”

She opened the door and stepped inside, wearing a robe. “I was awakened by voices. Is everything all right?”

“It was just a phone call,” he said. “Everything is all right. Go back to bed.”

“You sounded very tense,” she said.

“How could you hear me from across the hall?”

“You tend to shout when you’re tense,” she said.

“You’re right, I do. Now please go back to bed and don’t come out until breakfast time.”

“All right.” She shut the door, and he heard her door close.

She turned on her iPhone and checked it: no phone service, no Wi-Fi, no e-mails received. She lay back down and tried to sleep, but could only rest. Finally, as dawn broke, she got up, showered, washed and dried her hair, and dressed. She walked into the dining room at seven sharp. No one was there.

She heard men laughing outside and peeked out a window. Sykes, Eugene, and the other man were obviously elated. She left the dining room and didn’t return until she heard them come in. “Good morning,” she said cheerfully.

“Good morning,” the three of them said together.

“You’re looking very pleased with yourself,” she said to Sykes. “Has something good happened?”

“I don’t know,” Sykes replied, reaching for a TV remote control. “Let’s check CNN.”

A woman was standing on the White House lawn, microphone in her hand. “This is the statement issued a few minutes ago,” she said. “‘Last night, very late, a breach of White House security occurred. A member of the staff was injured, is being treated at a local hospital, and is expected to recover.’ That’s all we have at the moment.”

“No name or gender of the person injured?” the anchorperson asked.

“No, just what I read. Everyone is very tight-lipped, as you might expect when a member of the White House staff has been injured.”

The anchorperson turned to other stories, and Sykes switched off the TV.

“‘Injured’?” Eugene asked, clearly surprised.

Sykes cut him off with a sharp glance. “That’s what she said. We’ll hear more later.”

They continued their breakfast in silence. “I have to get to work,” Bess said. “Will you excuse me?”

“Of course,” Sykes replied. “Will we see you at the weekend?”

“If you like.”

“I like.”

She left, gathered up her purse and her coat, got into her car, and departed.

Sykes stood up. “Eugene,” he said. “I want you to go up to the top of the hill, to the spot where you were shooting the other day, and see if you can find a cell phone.”

“What would a cell phone be doing up there?” Eugene asked. “You’ve got all the phones.”

“Look for a burner,” he said, “and be thorough. Work your way outward from where you were firing.”

Bill Wright and Tom Blake sat at a table in the White House mess with George Perkins, the head of the White House Secret Service detail.

“My people have been over the rectory with a fine-tooth comb,” Perkins said. “Nothing was disturbed, no new fingerprints found, no gunshot residue detected. The only thing that might have been out of place was an open window overlooking the garden, and they think a maid might have done that yesterday when it got warm upstairs. The cleaning staff will be questioned as soon as they arrive at work.”

Bill Wright spoke up. “I think we need to get the president-elect out of here today. I’ve already called Barrington on my own authority, and his airplane will arrive around eleven AM, at Manassas.”

“You didn’t run that by your director?” Tom asked.

“No. I’m in charge of her personal detail until she’s sworn in on January 20.”

“What did your director have to say about what happened?”

“I haven’t spoken to him yet, and I won’t until we’re in the air.”

“I didn’t hear that,” George Perkins said.

“Don’t worry, George, I’ll take whatever heat there may be.”

“I don’t see how you could be in any trouble,” Tom said. “After all, we prevented an assassination.” His phone rang, and he checked the incoming number before stepping away from the table. “Yes?”

“It’s me,” Elizabeth said. “What the hell happened at the White House early this morning?”

“There was an attempt on her life, but the shooter hit a dummy we had set up. Everyone here is fine.”

“No one in the hospital?”

“That was a cover story.”

“I was awakened by Sykes’s telephone last night. He’s across the hall from my room.”

“What time did the call come in?”

“A little after three-thirty.”

“His man was reporting in,” Tom said.

“They were outside talking when I came down for breakfast. They were excited and elated.”

“Eugene reported a successful hit, and it was, but on the dummy.”

“I got your e-mail,” she said. “I take it my message wasn’t received.”

“It was very broken, but it got us looking. The shot was fired from the rectory at the Episcopal church across the way from the White House. Wright and I checked it out yesterday, and we had planned to be there at four AM, but they turned up early and were long gone when we got there.”