Стюарт Вудс - Wild Card

Damien poured the remains of Tigner’s martini into his own glass, and made himself comfortable.

Tim Tigner took a one-week driving-school course, obtained a New York driver’s license, and bought a five-year-old, low-mileage Mercedes station wagon from an online ad, paying the grateful seller in cash.

He rented garage space next door to his building, then removed the folding third-row seat from its compartment, installed a lock, and stowed his necessary weaponry, equipment, and cash there. He consulted a road map and Senator Box’s schedule and selected Kansas City, Missouri, as an interception point.

Three days later, he checked into an old hotel across the street from Box’s Kansas City, Missouri, campaign headquarters, then dropped in and collected some pamphlets and position papers, while casing the premises. Box’s name was on a mezzanine office, overlooking a dozen desks, next to a plate-glass window. His hotel was in view, and the building next to it seemed a good point for a sniper, if the opportunity arose. He stopped at a desk and asked a young woman when the senator was due in town.

“He’s already arrived,” she said.

“Will he visit the headquarters?”

“Yes, about five o’clock, for the rally this evening,” she said, “if you’d like to meet him.”

“Thank you, I would,” Tigner said. “I’m with Nouveaux Temps magazine, in Paris. We have a worldwide circulation, and I’d very much like to interview him.”

She consulted a schedule — without asking for his credentials. “If you could be here at six-forty-five, he has fifteen minutes free then.”

“Perfect,” he replied. “Could you make a note of my name and publication for his schedule, so there won’t be any mix-up?”

“Of course. We do that as a matter of routine.”

He spelled everything for her, thanked her, and walked toward the front door.

Ari Kramer and Annie Lee were credentialed for the campaign aircraft, an elderly Boeing 727, with the words SENATOR JOE BOX FOR AMERICA emblazoned on the side, and arrived in the early afternoon. They were in the campaign headquarters when a young man in a business suit, wearing horn-rimmed glasses and carrying a briefcase, walked past them, gaining Ari’s attention.

“Something wrong with that man?” Annie asked him.

“No, he’s just about the only member of the public I’ve ever seen in a campaign headquarters wearing a suit and tie, that’s all.”

Annie took a good look at the young man. “It makes him more interesting,” she said.

Tigner went back to his hotel, walked up the fire stairs to the third floor, and went out onto the fire escape, which hung slightly over the gap between the platform and the parapet of the building next door. He jumped down onto the roof, walked to the front of the neighboring building, and leaned on the parapet, which came up to his chest. There, just across the street, was the empty office of Senator Joseph Box, no more than fifty yards away.

It occurred to him that, after he had taken the shot, this was the first place the police would search. So he walked around the roof of the building looking for a way to dispose of his weapon and found a large ventilator shaft with a curved top, opening onto the roof. He put his hand inside and felt hot air blowing out. He then returned to the fire escape at a trot, found an empty wooden box near it, set the box next to the parapet, then with one step to the box and another to the parapet, jumped across the gap between the buildings and let himself into the hotel. A short walk down the hall, then he took the elevator to his room on the second floor.

He pulled away the velcroed inside flap of his suitcase and selected from a small array of forged documents a press pass issued by the Paris police with his photograph and name on it, giving him the title of U.S. correspondent and bearing an official-looking stamp. He also took out an international driver’s license, then resealed the flap.

He got out his throwaway cell and called Damien.

“Yes?”

“Can you talk for a moment?”

“Yes.”

“I have intersected in Kansas City with the gentleman you wanted me to say hello to. There will be an excellent opportunity for me to complete the introduction in a couple of hours.”

“Let me check a few things, and I’ll call you back,” Damien said, then hung up.

Damien went to Hank’s office. “This may be sooner than we expected, but there’s an opportunity to take out Joe Box in Kansas City, in about two hours. What would you like to do?”

Hank sat back in his chair and thought about it, then he tapped a finger on the newspaper on his desk. “Box is still moving up in the polls,” he said. “I think if we wait much longer he might become too big a thing, and they’ll give him Secret Service protection, and we don’t want to deal with that. I think this might be a good time.”

“Then I will press the button,” Damien said. He went back to his office and called the number.

“Yes?” Tigner asked

“This is a perfect time for you to meet the gentleman,” he said.

“I’ll be back in the city in a couple of days,” Tigner said. “I’ll call you then.” He hung up.

Tigner walked down the stairs to the parking garage, where he unlocked and opened the rear of the station wagon. He put on a thin pair of driving gloves, took out a nylon carryall, and set inside it a military-style carbine, broken into two pieces, and a telescopic sight, along with a silencer/suppressor that was about eighteen inches long. He loaded the weapon with six rounds of ammunition, then he added a light black sweater and a ski mask and a pair of long latex gloves. He returned to his room and watched TV for a while, then he found a room service menu, picked up the phone, and ordered a strip steak, fries, beans, and half a bottle of cabernet.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Tigner. That will take about thirty or forty minutes.”

“Fine,” he replied. “I may be in the shower. Please ask the waiter just to let himself in and set up on the coffee table in my room and open the wine to breathe. Add a twenty-five percent tip to the check.”

“Of course.”

Tigner turned on the shower to a warm temperature, hung his suit jacket and tie in his closet, took the black bag, slipped on the light black sweater over his shirt, took the bag, and retraced his steps to the fire escape. He looked around and saw nobody watching, so he tossed the bag onto the roof, then jumped after it. Still looking for anyone who might see him, he walked to the parapet, put on the ski mask, pulled on the latex gloves over his sleeves. He assembled the rifle, affixed the scope, then took a peek over the parapet. Ten minutes passed before he heard a siren, and a police car pulled up at the campaign headquarters, followed by a short motorcade, which disgorged Senator Joseph Box and a dozen other people. They went inside, where the senator shook the hands of the campaign volunteers, then Box worked his way upstairs to his mezzanine office, and there he came into Tigner’s view.

Tigner took one more look around, then rested the rifle on the parapet, pulled back on the slide to move the first round into the chamber, and trained the sight’s crosshairs on the plate-glass window.

Senator Box entered the office with two other people, one of whom closed the door behind them. Box sat down at the desk.

“Perfect,” Tigner said, squeezing off the round. Box collapsed behind his desk. Tigner then disassembled the weapon, wiped it clean, and dropped it into the bag with the sweater, the ski mask, and, finally, the long latex gloves. Taking care not to touch anything but the handles, he trotted over to the ventilator, dropped it down the shaft, and turned toward the fire escape. He decided the box he had left there was too obvious, so he kicked it away a few feet, stood back, and ran at the parapet.