Стюарт Вудс - Choppy Water

Stone poured them both one.

“Gentlemen,” Holly said, “I command you to drink an alcoholic beverage.”

“As long as you put it that way,” Tom said. “I’ll try your bourbon, too, Stone.”

“As will I,” Bill said.

The door opened and Claire Dunn entered, carrying more shopping bags. She had become the de facto bodyguard for Holly.

“You’re drinking, too, Claire,” Holly said.

“It’s an order from the top,” Bill said.

Claire dropped her bags. “Can you make a martini, Stone?”

“It’s one of my many virtues,” Stone replied, then reached into a freezer drawer for a bottle he had premixed and poured her one. He dropped two olives stuffed with anchovies into the glass and handed it to her.

Bill raised his glass. “The next administration,” he said, and they all drank.

Holly took the chair next to Stone’s. “If we’re going to talk shop, we’d better do it before the booze kicks in,” she said.

“Tom,” Bill said, “you’re here to fill us in on your end.”

“Fortunately, I have more to report than I would have had a few hours ago,” Tom said. “To sum it up, we’re dealing with a five-man unit of domestic terrorists who have apparently been organized for the express purpose of preventing the president-elect from becoming president. Their leader is a retired Army colonel, Wade Sykes, who resigned from the service under a cloud when he was found to be distributing white-supremacist literature among some of his command. There are four other members residing at his compound in Virginia. We have first names only: Eugene, Earl, Rod, and Jimmy. There are also two others who are not residents there but visit regularly. One of them, unbeknownst to Sykes, is a female special agent of the FBI; the other is an African-American who cooks at the compound and is a member of the CIA.”

“What interest does the CIA have in all this?” Bill asked. “They’re off their turf, aren’t they?”

“I had lunch today with Lance Cabot to ask him just that, but I failed in my mission when lunch was cut short.”

“As lunch with Lance often is,” Stone remarked.

“Since Stone is a special advisor to Lance,” Tom said, “I will ask him to get us an answer to that question.”

“I’ll do my best,” Stone said.

“Thus far, there have been three attempts on the president-elect’s life. All, I’m glad to say, have been unsuccessful. You all know about the Maine incident and last week’s shooting of the dummy in the family quarters of the White House.”

There was a murmur of assent.

“There was also a failed attempt at Ms. Barker’s Georgetown residence, in which our female agent took part as the getaway driver.”

“What have the two operatives at the compound learned?”

“Elizabeth Potter, who is known as Bess Potts at the compound, gleaned sufficient knowledge to foil the Georgetown and White House attacks, but she was not yet a member of the group at the time of the Maine incident. We have not yet had a report from the cook, Leroy Collins, known at the compound as Elroy Hubbard. Sykes does not trust him, apparently because he’s black, but fortunately, he likes the man’s cooking.

“As we speak, Sykes, Bess, and the four other members are on their way to New York, apparently for another attempt. This time, we hope we will have enough intelligence to bag them all. We are helped by the fact that Bess has managed to plant trackers on both the vehicles they are traveling in: a Ford Explorer and a van.” He turned his laptop around so that they could see the screen. “As you can see, they’re in New Jersey now.

“Sykes and Bess are staying at the Lowell Hotel on East Sixty-third at Madison. We hope to penetrate their quarters. We’re seeking a search warrant now. That’s about it.”

“All that is encouraging,” Bill said, “but we still don’t have enough evidence to arrest them for anything.”

“I know, and that’s discouraging,” Tom replied.

Stone spoke up. “A question that hasn’t been asked or answered is whether this is a small band of people working on their own, or are they part of a larger group?”

“I’m afraid none of us has anything on that,” Bill said.

Holly spoke up. “Gentlemen — and Claire — do any of you have an opinion of the group’s chances of succeeding?”

There was dead silence for a count of about ten while each of the participants hoped someone else would say it, then Stone spoke up. “A president, I think Harry Truman, said that anyone could kill a president, as long as he was willing to die himself.”

“I think that’s close to being the truth,” Bill said. “But certain precautions can make a difference. For example, ma’am, at every rally you’ve attended while under our protection, from the beginning of your campaign until the present, all the people in the first three rows of the crowd have been prescreened. Most of them were campaign workers or volunteers known to the local organizers. We’ve collected the names, dates of birth, and Social Security numbers of all the others and run them through a computer program designed to reveal if any of them have been treated for a serious mental condition, or is known to have committed a violent crime, including domestic violence, or has threatened the life of a president. By thus cleansing the first three rows of such people, attempts on the principal’s life has been sharply reduced, as long — and this is essential — as the principal does not penetrate the crowds.

“A training film exists of a campaign appearance by former Alabama governor George Wallace, in which he ignores that stricture and spontaneously plunges into the crowd, shaking their outstretched hands. Just beyond the third row he encounters one Arthur Bremer, who shoots him five times before our people can reach him, thereby instantly turning Mr. Wallace into a paraplegic, wheelchair bound for the remainder of his life.”

“I’ve seen that film,” Holly said, “and it put the fear of God into me — or, at least, the fear of crowds.”

“I’m very glad to hear that, ma’am, because that fear may save your life.”

“I think the real moral of that story,” Stone said, “is listen to and obey the Secret Service.”

“I shall endeavor to do so,” Holly replied. “Up to a point.”

“Ah,” Bill Wright said. “That point where you are, however briefly, on your own.”

Tom Blake was shown to his room and, before showering and changing, made a call. “What is your progress?” he asked.

“The manager at the hotel declined to cooperate until shown a search warrant,” the agent said. “It arrived ten minutes ago, and we are now in the suite.”

“How much time do you need?”

“Fifty minutes,” he said.

“Call the superintendent of the New Jersey state police, describe the two vehicles, and ask him to have his people stop and inspect half a dozen vehicles, among them the suspects’. Tell him this is at the request of the director and the attorney general.”

“Is that a fact, sir?”

“It will be by the time they are stopped. Goodbye.”

Tom called the director, made his case, got his approval, then asked him to call and alert the attorney general. He phoned his agent again. “You are now officially authorized. What is your progress?”

“We need another forty minutes,” the man replied. “Our equipment shows the vehicles twelve minutes out from the Lincoln Tunnel.”

“You’ll make it. You know, of course, that if Sykes twigs to your installation, you’ll be taken out and shot.”

“Of course, sir. If I fail, I’ll look forward to that.”

The group gathered downstairs for dinner in the dining room, prepared by Stone’s cook, Helene, and served by her husband, Fred.