reluctance and he leaned forward. “Only a madman would think it worth killing the President,” he said. “There is nothing to gain — the Vice-President’s policies wouldn’t differ one iota from the policies of the incumbent. This is not a JFK situation.”
“And a madman wouldn’t be able to plan an operation of this complexity; is that what you’re saying?”
“That’s it exactly. The sort of assassination attempts we’ve seen in recent years have all been the lone madman type, either attention-seekers or psychopaths. There have been no organised assassination attempts, no conspiracies. That’s the reason for my scepticism. Who would want to kill the President? The Russians are our allies now, even Castro is looking to build bridges. The Iraqis, the Iranians, all our old enemies are keen to start trading with us again. No, I believe a major hit is being planned, but I don’t think for one minute that the President is the target.” He held up his hands. “I’m not saying I won’t offer you every facility; I’d be a fool if I refused to help. But unless you give something harder, I won’t be cancelling any of his appearances.”
“That’s understood,” said Howard. He knew that the Secret Service man was right. Crying wolf wouldn’t help anyone’s long-term career prospects.
“Having said that, if your computer model does indeed match any of the Presidential venues, well, that’s a whole new ball game. Look, I’ll be in DC tonight, call my office tomorrow and we’ll arrange for Kim and your programmers to come over. The sooner we get started, the better.”
Sanger stood up and held out his hand. The two men shook. “Do you smoke?” Sanger asked. Howard said he didn’t but Sanger handed over two packets of cigarettes and a book of matches, each with a large Presidential seal on them. “Take these anyway,” he said, “souvenirs of Air Force One.”
As Howard stepped off the stairway and onto the tarmac the men in black suits were walking back from the terminal, looking at their watches and whispering into their walkie-talkies. The huge jet engines began to whine and by the time he was starting his car the 747 was rolling majestically down the taxiway.
The two men sat in the darkened room, watching the television monitor. The picture was black and white, though the image was being recorded in colour. On the table next to the video-recorder were two large reel-to-reel tape-recorders, the tapes hissing slightly as they passed over the recording heads. One of the men, tall and thin with sandy hair and a sallow complexion, was lounging in a deck chair and holding a pair of headphones in his lap, while the other, overweight with slicked-back black hair, stood behind the camcorder on its tripod and looked down its long lens, through the Venetian blinds at the street below.
Everything was automatic, all the men had to do was to replace the videotape every eight hours and to change the audio tapes every ninety minutes. Most of the time there was only one man in the room, but it was just before three o’clock in the afternoon, the time when they changed shifts, and Don Clutesi, the man at the window, had decided to stay on for a few minutes to chat with Frank Sullivan.
The camcorder was trained on the bar across the street from the apartment block they were in, and had been for the last three months. The electronic eavesdropping devices were a recent addition: one had been inserted into the telephone by the men’s room, the other was inside a power socket behind the bar. Both had been installed by FBI technicians after they’d engineered a power blackout of the whole block one Friday afternoon.
Sullivan took off the headphones. “That’s the new guy,” he said, looking at the monitor. Clutesi squinted at the figure walking along the sidewalk, his shoulders hunched and his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his sailor’s pea jacket. “His name’s O’Brien, Damien O’Brien.”
“Irish?” asked Clutesi.
“British passport, but born in Belfast. We’re running the details through our London liaison office.”
“Green card?”
“No, tourist. He came in through JFK on March 17 and INS gave him a six-month B2 visa. He shouldn’t be working.”
Clutesi chuckled. “Was he expected?”
“Apparently not. He visited the bar a few times as a customer and then Shorty hired him as a barman.”
“And we’ve nothing on him?”
“Not as Damien O’Brien, that’s for sure. And we haven’t got a match with any photographs yet. We’re trying to get a new face from the Academy to go in and get a glass for prints, but it’s taking time to arrange.”
Clutesi nodded. “Yeah, but those Paddies can smell a Fed a mile off. We need a youngster, someone fresh. We can’t rush it.” He watched as the man in the pea jacket pushed open the door and went inside, then turned round to face his colleague. “What do you think?”
Sullivan shrugged. “Could be on the lam from the Brits. We’ll know soon enough.” He slid the headphones back on and leaned back in the deck-chair.
“I’m going,” Clutesi mouthed, pointing at the door. “See you tomorrow.” Sullivan gave him a thumbs-up. He was listening to Shorty tell a particularly dirty story about two Protestant farmers and a sheep.
Andy Kim drove the red Cherokee Laredo up to the barrier and wound down his window. “I can’t believe this, I really can’t believe this,” he said to his wife.
“I know, I have to keep pinching myself,” Bonnie whispered. She giggled, but stopped abruptly when a guard appeared at Andy’s window, a clipboard in his hand.
“Andy Kim and Bonnie Kim,” said Andy, before the guard could speak. “We’re expected. We’re supposed to go to the West Wing.”
Bonnie leaned over and showed her FBI credentials to the unsmiling guard. He nodded and consulted his clipboard and then waved to a colleague to raise the barrier. “Park in bay 56, someone will meet you there,” he said brusquely and handed them both temporary visitor badges.
Andy nudged the vehicle down the driveway and wound up the window. “Friendly,” he said to Bonnie.
“They’re not paid to be friendly, I suppose,” she replied.
They both looked to the left as they headed slowly down the driveway. The White House gleamed in the afternoon sun as if it had been freshly painted. The grass surrounding the building seemed unnaturally green, like Astroturf, though the operating sprinklers suggested that it was the genuine article. “My parents brought me here as a kid, just after they got citizenship,” said Andy. “We queued for two hours in August, so they could see the house where the President lived. ‘Our President’ they kept saying, as if he was their personal representative. They were so proud that they could finally call themselves Americans.” He saw the bay where they were to park and he edged the car between a convertible white Saab and a black Lincoln. “We were herded through the public rooms like sheep, they barely gave us time to see anything because of the lines outside.” He switched off the engine and looked across at his wife. “They’d have been so proud of what we’re doing now. Actually working at the White House, helping the President.”
Bonnie wanted to take her husband in her arms and squeeze him. His parents had died in a car crash shortly before his seventeenth birthday and she knew that the thing he missed more than anything was not having them there to see how successful he was becoming and how all their financial sacrifices had paid off. He wanted so badly for them to be proud of him, but the drunken driver at the wheel of the overloaded truck had robbed him of that. “They’d have been proud,” she said, reaching over to hold his hand.
“I hope so,” he said. He held her gaze for a moment and then winked. “Come on, let’s get to it.”
They climbed out of the four-wheel drive vehicle and Andy began pulling the cardboard boxes off the back seat. They’d brought several hard disks, Bonnie’s CD and back-up copies of all the programs they’d been using. As Andy stacked the boxes on the asphalt, a thin young man with a military hair cut and pockmarked cheeks, wearing a blue blazer and grey slacks, walked up. He introduced himself as Rick Palmer, a former Army programmer on attachment to the White House, and he helped them carry the boxes. He’d spoken earlier to the Kims to ensure that there would be no equipment compatibility problems, but this was the first time they’d met. He took them through a side entrance, past a uniformed guard who scrutinised their badges. “I’ll have personal IDs fixed up for you by this evening,” Palmer promised as he took them to the sub-ground level of the West Wing. They walked by signs identifying the White House Communications Centre and the Situation Room. Palmer pushed open a door with his shoulder and led the Kims into a white-walled office. “This is home,” he said, placing the boxes he’d been carrying onto one of the four desks in the room. Each of the desks had an IBM computer and a telephone. “It was part of the secretarial pool but Bob Sanger had it requisitioned for you. Well, for us, actually, I’ll be working with you.”
“Great,” said Andy.
“We’ve another five programmers coming,” said Bonnie. “We’ll have to bring in more desks. And terminals.”
“Let me know what you need,” said Palmer. “These terminals are hooked into our mainframe, I’ll take you
