protocol is concerned. I’ll get someone to call you.” He leant back in his chair. “Right, let’s get to it.” He smiled warmly at the two agents, though Howard had the distinct impression that it was meant more for Kelly than for him.
Joker pulled the metal tab on a can of Guinness and sipped the dark brew as he watched the game. Gaelic football took the most aggressive aspects of soccer, rugby and all-in wrestling and was played as much for the physical contact as for the score. The lunchtime matches in the park in the Bronx were a magnet for New York’s Irish community, and for those native New Yorkers who appreciated the finer points of grown men knocking the shit out of each other. It was a warm day and Joker had unbuttoned his pea jacket. Birds were singing in the tree branches overhead and he’d actually seen people smiling in the street as if they realised that summer wasn’t too far away. Joker walked over to a wooden bench and sat down next to a man in a blue anorak who was reading a newspaper. The man looked up as if defending his territory and Joker smiled and raised his can. “Do yer mind if I sit here?” he asked. The man shook his head and went back to his paper. Joker concentrated on the game. Most of the shouts he heard, from the players and from the spectators, were Irish, and he saw several bottles of Irish whiskey being handed around.
Joker wasn’t due behind the bar at Filbin’s until three o’clock and so he’d decided to leave Manhattan and cross to the Bronx. It was a pleasant enough borough in places and in some ways it reminded him of Glasgow, struggling to outgrow an image of deprivation and poverty which it no longer deserved. He’d spent most of his teenage years in Glasgow, and learnt to love it despite its rough edges, but it seemed that whenever he talked about the city to those who had never been there, the talk always turned to the Gorbals and the razor gangs. Joker had grown tired of explaining that the decaying tenement blocks of the Gorbals had long been torn down and that the bad guys in Glasgow now carried automatic weapons like bad guys everywhere.
Joker took a mouthful of Guinness and swallowed slowly, enjoying the taste and feel of the thick, malty brew. Joker had read that pregnant mothers used to be given a half pint of the Irish stout when they were in British hospitals, it was so full of vitamins and goodness. As he drank he looked over at the paper his neighbour was reading. It was the
Joker confessed that he’d forgotten their names and they introduced themselves: the Guinness drinker was Tom, the other was Billy. As it always did when strangers from Belfast met, the conversation soon turned to the basics: where you went to school, where you lived, and who your family were. The answers to the three questions identified your religion, your politics, and your social standing, and woe betide the Protestant who supplied the wrong answers to a gathering of Catholics, and vice versa. Joker’s cover story was as ingrained as his real childhood, and he had no trouble convincing the two men that he was a working-class Catholic who’d left Belfast for Glasgow while still a teenager.
“What brings you to New York?” Billy asked.
“I was being paid under the table for the past couple of years, and the taxman got on my case,” said Joker, watching the teams run back onto the pitch. “Thought I’d lie low for a while.”
“Aye, it’s in a terrible state, the British economy,” said Tom, wiping white froth from his lips with the back of his hand. “Mind you, it’s not so great here. Yer wuz lucky getting the job at the bar, right enough.”
“Yeah, that was a break,” Joker agreed. “Friend of mine called me some time back, saying it was a good pub to hang out in.” He took a long pull at his Guinness and kept his eyes on the pitch as the game restarted. “Maybe you know him. Matthew Bailey.”
Both men shook their heads. “Can’t say the name rings a bell,” said Tom.
Billy leant forward conspiratorially. “Was he one of the boys?” he asked. He moved back and held up a hand. “Not that I’m prying, yez understand. It’s just that sometimes we have visitors who are a mite flexible about their names and origins, if yez get my drift.”
“Aye, I know what yer mean,” said Joker. “Better forget I asked. The telephone number he gave me has been disconnected, so I guess he’s moved on.” He stayed drinking and chatting with the two men until two-thirty, then wished them well and headed back to Manhattan. On the way to Filbin’s he used his Visa card in an automatic teller machine, withdrawing another $300 and slipping it into his wallet.
Cole Howard’s phone rang. “Agent Howard?” asked a crisp authoritative voice.
“Speaking,” said Howard. He had the photographs of the snipers spread out on his desk in front of him.
“My name’s Bob Sanger, I’m head of the Secret Service’s Intelligence Division. I’ve just been speaking to your boss; he said we should make contact.”
“Sounds good to me,” said Howard. “Where are you?”
Howard heard Sanger snort as if suppressing a laugh. “At the moment I’m about thirty thousand feet above San Bernardino en route to Andrews Air Force Base,” he said. Howard was surprised. The line was perfectly clear as if the call had been placed from the next room. “Can you get to the airport by ten-thirty?”
“Andrews?” said Howard, confused. He heard the snort again.
“No, Sky Harbour International,” he said, referring to the main international airport in Phoenix.
Howard looked at his wristwatch. It was just after 10 a.m. “Sure,” he said. He’d been assuming that he’d have to fly out to Washington to meet with the Secret Service representative. The opportunity of seeing him in Phoenix was a bonus.
“Come along to the General Aviation terminal, ask for me there,” said Sanger.
“Which plane will you be on?” Howard asked, reaching for a pen.
Sanger made the soft snorting sound again. “Don’t worry, Agent Howard,” he said. “You’ll have no trouble finding us.”
The line went dead, leaving Howard wondering what the Secret Service man had meant. He collected his car from the office parking lot and drove quickly to the airport, parking in front of the General Aviation terminal. As the electronic doors hissed open to allow him into the terminal building, he saw a line of airport workers and passengers standing in front of the large picture window which overlooked the tarmac. As he walked up to them he realised with a jolt what they were looking at. Standing alone was a majestic Jumbo Jet, resplendent in a blue and white livery with the gold and black presidential seal on its belly. Air Force One. The spectators stood in silence, awed by the glistening symbol of Presidential authority. The plane was in pristine condition as if it had just rolled off the Boeing assembly line. Howard stood behind two baggage handlers and watched as a team of overalled workers busied themselves refuelling the jet. They were being supervised by two men in dark suits wearing sunglasses and carrying walkie-talkies.
Howard frowned as he studied the plane. The President had no official visit scheduled for Phoenix that he knew of, and the FBI would have been informed as a matter of course. He headed for the doors which led to the tarmac. His way was barred by two more Secret Service agents, wearing matching sunglasses and black suits. Howard identified himself before reaching slowly into his jacket to pull out his ID. Both agents tensed and the one on the right, the younger of the two, began to move his hand towards his waist. Howard smiled and slowed his movements, opening the wallet and showing his FBI credentials.
The older agent carefully checked the ID. “Are you carrying, sir?” he asked. Howard shook his head. The agents relaxed and stepped to the side. The younger pushed open the door for Howard, his face unsmiling.
“Bob Sanger’s waiting for you on board, sir,” said the older agent. “Have a nice day.”
As Howard walked across the tarmac to the gleaming jet, he heard the younger agent talking into his walkie-talkie. There were half a dozen agents standing at various points around the plane and several looked at Howard as if they were checking him out. They had earpieces from which wires disappeared into the collars of their jackets. A gust of wind blew the back of one agent’s jacket up around his waist and Howard caught a glimpse of a machine pistol in a nylon holster in the small of his back. Even Howard, an eight-year veteran of the FBI, felt nervous under the scrutiny of the stone-faced men in dark suits.
The giant plane epitomised the power and the glory of the United States of America, both in its sheer size
