Стюарт Вудс - Wild Card

He got a foot on the parapet, then jumped for the fire escape. Once inside, he closed the door behind him and ran down the stairs to his floor, down the hall, and let himself into his room. His dinner rested on the coffee table.

He hung his clothes in the closet, got into the shower, and scrubbed his hands and body to remove any residue from the shots fired, then toweled down, got into a terrycloth robe, and went back into the living room. The TV was still on, and a news announcer was reporting, over a breaking news banner, that the presidential candidate, Senator Joseph Box, had been shot at his campaign headquarters; no word on his condition.

Tigner left it on and began to eat his steak and drink some of the wine. He was still eating his steak when there was a hammering on the door. “Police!” somebody shouted.

Ari and Annie met Senator Box as he came into the headquarters. “Let me shake some hands, and I’ll be right with you,” the senator said.

They watched him work the room, not missing a soul, and finally, he beckoned them to follow him up the stairs to his mezzanine office.

“You kids are doing a marvelous job!” Box enthused, waving them to seats and walking around the desk. “In fact, my private polling tells me—”

A loud noise and the sound of breaking glass interrupted the senator. He convulsed, and a spray of blood emanated from the back of his neck, then he collapsed like a felled ox behind the desk.

Annie dove for the floor, but Ari just stared at the bloody wall behind where the man had stood. He helped Annie to her feet. “There’s the phone,” he said, pointing to the desk. “Call nine-one-one.” He calmly walked around the desk to where Senator Box lay facedown, bleeding copiously from the back of his neck. He turned, grabbed Annie by her shirtfront, and yanked it open, revealing a T-top. He turned her around, stripped her of the shirt, folded it, pressed it tightly to Box’s neck, then sat down on the floor, holding firm pressure on the wound. “This is all we can do until emergency services arrive. You might put on your jacket.”

Annie had already hung up the phone and just stood there, staring at Ari. “Now I know,” she said, “that you are calm under every possible situation, or have I missed one?”

“I don’t think so,” Ari said. “Lock the office door until the EMTs arrive.”

She did so, just in time to stop a half dozen people who had run up the stairs.

Tigner had halfway finished his steak when the hammering on his door began. He picked up his wineglass and, still chewing, opened it. Two plainclothes officers holding badges entered the room. “Let’s see some ID,” one of them barked.

Tigner took a sip of his wine, swallowed, set his glass on the coffee table, and went to the closet. He came back with his wallet and passport.

A cop read his documents. “What’s your name?”

“Timothy Tigner,” he replied. “I’m a correspondent for a Paris magazine. You have my press pass, there in my wallet.”

“Where have you been for the past hour?” the cop asked.

“Here. I ordered some dinner — I missed lunch — and took a shower.” He was still in his bathrobe, and his hair was wet.

“Has anyone else been in your room?”

“Just the room service waiter,” he replied. “What’s going on?”

The cop gestured at the TV, which was on, but with the volume turned down. A breaking-news banner and an alarmed-looking young news reader, moving his lips silently, were on-screen.

“Why are you in Kansas City?” the cop asked.

“I’m covering Senator Box’s campaign for my magazine. I have a six-forty-five appointment with him for an interview.”

“Well,” the cop said, “he isn’t going to make it.”

“Why not?” Tigner asked.

“He’s going into surgery, last we heard,” the second cop said. “Gunshot wound. Mike, call over to campaign HQ and check this guy out.” Then he turned back to Tigner. “Do you have any weapons in the room?”

Tigner pointed at the coffee table. “Just a steak knife.”

“No firearms?”

“No.”

The other cop hung up his phone. “He checks out,” he said to his partner. “He’s on Box’s schedule for six-forty-five.”

The first cop handed Tigner back his ID. “Don’t leave town for the next twelve hours,” he said.

“I wouldn’t think of it,” Tigner replied. “I have a different kind of story to cover now. What hospital is he in?”

The cop told him. “But let me give you some advice: In this country, you’ll get the whole story faster by just watching that.” He pointed at the TV.

“Good suggestion,” Tigner said. “May I finish my dinner now?”

“Sure, go ahead, Mr. Tigner.”

The cops left, and Tigner turned up the TV volume, then returned his attention to his steak.

A half hour later the police held a meeting in the hotel manager’s conference room.

“What have we got in this hotel?” asked a uniformed captain wearing a lot of brass.

“Nothing unusual,” somebody said. “Looks like half the rooms are taken by campaign people and journalists, and the other by traveling salesmen. Nobody smells funny.”

“Another team found what appears to be the weapon in a furnace in the building next door,” the captain said. “It’s just a mess of melting metal, though. We won’t get much from that.”

In their hotel room, Ari and Annie had been thoroughly grilled by the police and FBI, and were taking police advice and skipping the hospital, watching TV instead.

“Let’s order some dinner,” Annie said, opening a room service menu.

“We may as well,” Ari said. “If he dies, our jobs are over. Even if he makes it, he’s not going to be campaigning anymore.”

His Skype alarm went off, and he opened his laptop and signed on. Smith sat quietly, staring at him. “Good evening,” he said.

“Good evening,” Ari replied. “Have you heard the news?”

“I expect everybody has,” Smith said. “Any news from the campaign on the senator’s condition?”

“Last we heard, he was in surgery, but no outcome yet.”

“Well, get a good night’s sleep, then tomorrow, go home. Even if Box recovers, I doubt if he’ll stay in the race, but who knows? You’ll still be paid. Just wait for news.”

“Yes, sir,” Ari said. “We’ll be available.” They both signed off.

“I want a steak, how about you?” Annie asked.

“Same here.”

“I wonder what there is to do in Kansas City?”

“Less than in Boston, I imagine,” Ari said.

She picked up the phone and ordered.

Annie hung up the phone. “We’ve got nearly an hour until dinner comes,” she said. “Whatever will we do?” She made a dive for him across the bed.

Damien met with the Thomases the following morning, ready to defend himself.

“I see that Joe Box is recovering,” Hank said.

“How did your man come to botch it?” Henry asked.

“No, Poppa,” Hank said, holding up a hand. “It’s better this way. He won’t be a martyr, but he’ll be out of the race, if his prognosis is accurate.”

“That’s right,” Damien said. “Our man made the shot under difficult circumstances, through a plate-glass window, and still managed to disable the man.”

“Oh, all right,” Henry said, “I guess you’re both right. When is your man coming back here?”

“A day or two,” Damien said. “He’s driving.”

“Good,” Henry said.

“Did you have something in mind, Poppa?” Hank asked.

“Stone Barrington,” Henry said.

“You want him killed?”

“He’s at the root of all our problems, going back to his discovery of the Tommassini files. If it weren’t for him, we wouldn’t be in this fix.”