John Abbott - Scimitar

On the radio, a news commentator was saying that the Presidential jet had just landed at La Guardia airport.

Dobbs listened while the girl told her story.

Good-looking kid, he was wondering how she’d managed to get mixed up with an assassin. No question now about what Sonny Boy was or what he planned to do. Green scimitar tattoo on his chest, he was one of Quaddafi’s chosen. Took her here to the island last Saturday, innocent boy and girl on a day trip, while meanwhile he’s shooting pictures of everything in sight, planning his attack. He’d be here again today, no question about that, either. If he could get past them. Dobbs couldn’t see how. He looked at the pencil drawing again.

“What color are his eyes?” he asked.

“A sort of greyish-green,” Elita said.

Not a bad-looking man, Dobbs thought, but who said a killer had to be? The guy who’d chopped up all those people in Milwaukee was handsome as hell.

“How tall is he?” Nichols asked.

Didn’t like feeling left out, Dobbs thought. If they nailed this guy, the CIA would take all the credit, no question about that , either.

“Around six feet?” the girl said. “More or less.”

Dobbs hoped he wouldn’t get physical.

“Ever take you to his apartment?” Nichols asked.

“No,” she said.

“Then you wouldn’t have seen a weapon...”

“No.”

“Anything he might use as...”

“No.”

Nichols looked out over the water. Wondering if Sonny Boy planned to come in that way, Dobbs guessed. The Coast Guard boat was still maneuvering out there. Nichols nodded, still wondering. His walkie-talkie went off. He took it from his belt and put it to his ear.

“Nichols,” he said, and listened. “Yeah,” he said. “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Got it, thank you.” He tossed back his jacket, hooked the walkie-talkie to his belt again.

“The chopper just left La Guardia,” he said.

Dobbs looked at his watch.

Twenty-five to twelve.

The girl seemed nervous.

He didn’t know what to say to her, so he just let it go.

Sonny waited.

The radio was telling him nothing new. Local news, information about tonight’s fireworks displays, traffic and weather conditions, but nothing further about Bush. His speech was scheduled to begin at twelve noon. Was there some problem?

Alvin Rhodes was beginning to smell.

Effluvial odors emanated from his distending organs.

Sonny tried not to breathe too deeply.

His digital watch read eleven thirty-seven.

The chopper came in over the water at a quarter to twelve, zooming out of the sun like an attack machine, the Presidential Seal painted on each of its sides, its big blades whirring furiously. From where Dobbs stood with the others, he could see it circling in toward the flagpole on the other end of the island. Hovering on the air now, virtually motionless, and then sinking lower and lower, below the treeline and out of sight.

He could not see the President when he disembarked.

He knew he would be surrounded by his own Secret Service people from Washington, who would rush him here to the base of the statue.

Sonny flipped through the dial.

One of the news announcers was saying that the president’s speech would begin as scheduled in ten minutes.

He took this to mean that Bush was already on the island.

He was handsomer in person than he appeared on television, a tall, rangy man with the look of an outdoorsman, sporting the suntan he had acquired on his recent vacation to Kennebunkport, smiling affably as he approached Heather, his hand outstretched.

“’Morning, Mr. President,” she said.

“’Morning, Heather,” he said.

Knack of his. Called everyone by his or her first name, never forgot a face or the name that went with it.

“Beautiful morning, isn’t it?”

“Gorgeous, Mr. President.”

“They look terrific up there,” Bush said, indicating with a wave of his hand the Marine Corps Band lined up on the level above. “Everything looks terrific.”

“Thank you, sir,” Heather said, beaming.

“I won’t need makeup, will I?”

“No, sir, you look fine,” she said.

“Because you know what Hitchcock used to say, don’t you? Alfred Hitchcock, the film director?”

“No, sir, I’m sorry, I don’t.”

“He used to say, ‘How can anyone respect a man who makes his living wearing makeup?’”

“Yes, sir.”

“He was referring to actors. He hated actors.”

“Yes, sir,” Heather said.

Some of her best friends were actors.

“Hello, John!” Bush shouted, changing the subject, and raising his arm in greeting to the brigadier general who would be leading the band. “Got some nice tunes for us today?”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“Did a good job with the podium, too,” he said, turning back to Heather, his Secret Service contingent turning with him as if they were all joined at the hip. Four men from the personal White House security platoon, two on each side of him, eyeballing the reporters and the other security people, checking the landscape for anything that looked even remotely alien. Dobbs walked over, introduced himself to the Secret Service man in charge. The two had a whispered conversation, Dobbs nodding in Elita’s direction, the White House man looking her over and nodding in puzzled understanding. As he understood it, the blonde was here to finger some Libyan hit man out to get the President. Which seemed about as likely as a Bengal tiger leaping out of the East River. The White House man nodded uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh, clearly unconvinced.

From behind the podium, Bush said, “Do we really need this thing?”

“Open water out there, Mr. President,” Heather said.

“I hate these darn things.”

A network woman wearing earphones and cradling a clipboard said, “Four minutes, Heather.”

“Can’t we get rid of it?” Bush said.

“Not without messing up all the bunting, sir,” Heather said.

“Mr. President, could we get a voice level, please?” one of the technicians said.

“Hello, Gabe,” Bush said, calling to a reporter he recognized.

“If you’ll just give me a ten-count, sir...”

“One, two, three, four...”

“Can we move that number-two camera a bit to the left?”

“Watch those cables, Harry.”

“Bit more, Mr. President.”

“Seven, eight...”

“Two minutes, Heather.”

“That’s good, sir, thank you.”

“Didn’t think I could count to ten, did you?” Bush quipped, and grinned.

A network person wearing earphones held up his hand, said, “Quiet, people,” and then turned toward the podium and said, “Ready, Mr. President?” Standing behind the battery of microphones, Bush cleared his throat and nodded. There were four television cameras between him and the water beyond. The security people were spaced in a semi-circle behind the cameras, facing not the President but the possible approaches to him from any given compass point. Only Dobbs stood apart with Elita, farther back from the others, where they commanded a wider view of the President and the statue behind him.

“Stand by, please,” the man with the earphones said.

“Thirty seconds,” the woman with the clipboard said.

Everyone fell silent.

There was not a breeze stirring.

Out on the water, even the Coast Guard boat had cut its engine and was drifting idly, soundlessly.

“Ten,” the woman said. “Nine... eight... seven... six...”

The man with the earphones held up his right hand for the President to see. Ticking them off on his fingers, he began counting the seconds to airtime...

“... five, four, three, two, one...”

“Good afternoon, my fellow Americans...”