Warren Murphy: Target of Opportunity

"Everything."

"Help me break this story, and I'll do anything you want."

"I want footage, all you can get. Especially of tonight."

"What's tonight?"

"The Christmas-tree lighting. The President will be making his first public appearance since Boston tonight. Be there. Film it all."

"Will something happen?"

"The fortes converging on this President will not rest until every player has found his mark and the full script has been acted out."

"Who wrote the script? The Secret Service? The CIA?"

"Like Caesar, he is surrounded by enemies but they have no face. Take the tapes out of your bag and leave them on the bench. Then go. I will be in touch."

Pepsie walked away with her spine feeling as cold and inflexible as a giant icicle.

She hailed a cab, which took her to her Georgetown town house.

Buck Featherstone showed up twenty-three minutes later with a happy look on his face.

"Did you get him on tape?"

"Yeah," he said. "But at that range, there's no sound."

Pepsie upended her bag on the coffee table. Out slid her minicassette recorder.

"I have the audio," she said.

"So, what did he tell you?"

"Let's play the video and audio at the same time. I have a hunch this may be the most important footage since the Zapruder film."

"Why do you say that?"

"I think Director X is involved in the conspiracy," Pepsie said thickly.

"What makes you say that?"

"He reminds me of that cameraman up in Boston."

Chapter 28

Orville Rollo Fletcher told the cab driver to let him off in front of Blair House, across the street from the White House. He pulled back the white fur on his scarlet cuff and checked his watch. Eight-ten. He prided himself on his punctuality. He had exactly five minutes to cross the street and present himself at the East Gate. He took a deep breath and tried to steady his quivering limbs. It was the most nervous he had been since he took Pamela Sue Hess to the high school prom back in 1967. It had been his first and only date. He didn't even get a good-night kiss.

Crossing against the traffic, Orville Rollo Fletcher shook off one of his black Santa mittens and dug his blue plastic inhaler from a voluminous coat pocket.

Nervously uncapping it, he brought the square plastic nozzle to his open mouth and pumped the cartridge once. A steroid jet moistened his drying tongue, and his nose and taste buds both quivered before the very unfamiliar taste and smell.

And through Orville Rollo Fletcher's eyes, the world began to change ....

WHEN THE WHITE HOUSE East Gate was opened, the Washington press corps stormed through it like lemmings seeking the sea. The uniformed Secret Service could hardly pass them through the gate fast enough.

Barred from entering, the White House press corps had chained themselves to the fence all along Pennsylvania Avenue in protest.

Up on the platform, the President of the United States looked at his watch while the First Lady fumed.

"Where's that damn Santa?" she said through tight teeth. "I need him to represent traditional Western Christian values."

"Watch your language. You never know how many shotgun mikes are out there pointed at us."

Beside them, the White House Christmas spruce loomed up stark and grim. No lights burned in the darkness created by dousing the protective floodlights on the White House facade and throughout the grounds, and the tree's trimmings were indistinguishable.

"I told that agency to have him here at eight sharp. The press is getting restless. They want to ask you a ton of questions."

The President turned to Secret Service Special Agent Vince Capezzi beside him and said, "When I light the tree, you alert Marine One. After I've spoken my piece, tell them to take off. That will give us enough time to get to the South Lawn and make a quick getaway."

"Yes, sir," said Capezzi.

On the other side of the podium, standing behind the Chief Executive and out of camera range, Remo Williams hovered worriedly, scanning the crowd, looking toward the high rooftops of the Treasury to the east and Executive Office Building to the west, where Secret Service countersnipers crouched behind their nightvision scopes.

It was the worst possible exposure for the President. But there was nothing anyone could say or do to convince the President not to go through with the ceremony. The only good thing about it was the fact that Marine One would pluck the President from the South Lawn and to the relative safety of Air Force One unannounced, and therefore before anyone could create a problem.

Once the President was back in Boston, there would be an entirely new headache, as far as Remo was concerned.

By 8:14 the rent-a-Santa hadn't shown, and the President signaled for the ceremony to begin. He stepped up to the dual microphone on the portable podium emblazoned with the Presidential seal.

"My fellow Americans," the President said without preamble. "In this season of joy and caring, I want to convey to you all the gratitude myself and my wife feel to be here with you-especially in light of the tragedy that nearly befell the office yesterday. I want you to know that no danger, no peril, will sway myself or the First Lady from prosecuting the cause of universal health care to the fullest. To symbolize the universality of our cause, and the diversity of the America we serve, I hereby inaugurate the Christmas season by the lighting of this magnificent tree."

The President and the First Lady laid hands on the lever set on a table beside the podium. In unison, they threw it.

The magnificent blue spruce lit up like a crazy Roman candle trying to blast off. Flashbulbs popped. Videocams whirred.

Only when the initial commotion abated did people's eyes begin to register the uniqueness of the White House Christmas tree.

The brilliant Star of David on top drew the first gasps. As the eye was drawn down from that, it encountered Kachina dolls, Egyptian ankhs, Kwanzaa candles, Buddhas, signs of the Zodiac and a solitary plastic poinsettia. Strings of red-hot chili peppers glowed on every evergreen bough, groaning under the political weight of inclusiveness.

At the base of the tree, a neon sign flashed seasons greetings in dozens of alternating languages:

Meri Kurisumasu

Joyeux Noel

Sheng Dan Kaui Le

God Jul

Kellemes Kardcsonyi Unnepeket

Merry Xmas

A reporter flung out the first question: "Mr. President-if you are indeed the President and not an impostor as rumored-was this idea yours or the First Lady's?"

The President hesitated. He looked to his wife. She stared daggers at him. He flushed as red as the poinsettia flower itself.

Before the President could insert his foot in his mouth, Santa Claus arrived at the East Gate, exactly fifteen minutes late, but as far as the Chief Executive was concerned, in the exact nick of time.

KIRBY AYERS of the uniformed Secret Service had been told to expect Santa Claus at eight sharp. He knew the timetable for the President's travel plans, and when Santa didn't arrive, he became nervous. That Santa was expected was one thing. He would still have to present his temporary White House pass, verifiable personal ID, submit to a patdown and be walked through the other security procedures.

By 8:10 Ayers knew that the damn Santa was close to throwing the Presidential itinerary into a stocking cap. By 8:12 he understood Santa had screwed up royally. At 8:14 he figured whether Santa showed up or not, he was going to be joining the ranks of the jobless by New Year's.

So when 8:15 came and Santa Claus came across Pennsylvania Avenue at a shuffling dead run, head held low between hunched shoulders, Kirby Ayers got ready to give him a piece of his mind.

"Where the hell-" he started to shout.

The lumbering Santa Claus lowered his head and made the most god-awful sound Kirby Ayers had ever heard issue from a human mouth. It was a bellow, low to start but achieving a blood-freezing higher register as the Santa hit the sidewalk before the East Gate.