their American counterparts, however — cold, watchful eyes, But while the Secret Service hid their eyes behind dark glasses, the Brits kept theirs unshielded and Howard had eye-contact with several of them as he stood by the door with Clutesi and Joker.
“Are these guys SAS?” Clutesi asked Joker.
Joker looked at the men standing guard on the Prime Minister and grinned. “No way,” he said. “They’re cops, not soldiers.”
Through his earpiece Howard heard an agent he assumed was Dave Steadman calling for situation reports from his men around the stadium. The President pointed down to the pitcher’s mound and said something and the Prime Minister smiled wryly. The First Lady said something to him and put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. They all laughed.
“He doesn’t seem the happiest of campers,” Howard whispered.
Joker shrugged. “He’s got a lot of problems at home,” he said quietly. “How are they leaving? By helicopter?”
Howard shook his head. “Motorcade,” he said.
“That’s risky, isn’t it?”
“They’re only going to the National Aquarium, less than a mile away. Sanger says they’ve arranged for a dummy motorcade to leave first by the main entrance as planned. The real motorcade will go ten minutes later through a back way. They’re using a bullet-proof Rolls-Royce from the British Embassy in Washington. Sanger seems happy with the arrangements.”
Joker nodded. He looked out through the window of the sky box. Secret Service agents were gathering around the diamond. “I think I’ll go down and check out the ground level again,” he said. “Is that okay with you?”
“Sure,” said Howard. “Just remember what Sanger said — no sudden moves, okay?” Howard watched Joker go.
“Isn’t that your friend?” asked Clutesi, tapping Howard on the shoulder.
Howard’s heart sank as he recognised Kelly Armstrong. “What the hell’s she doing here?” he muttered under his breath.
Kelly walked up and greeted Clutesi and Howard. “I didn’t realise you’d be here,” she said to Howard.
“I was going to say the same,” he replied.
“I wanted to talk to the Brits about their security arrangements,” she said. “Why are you here? I thought the Kims had ruled out the ballpark.”
“They have done, but we wanted to keep Cramer close to the President to see if he recognises anyone.”
“Cramer?” said Kelly, frowning.
“The British guy we found at the house.”
“You mean O’Brien.”
“His real name’s Cramer. He used to be with SAS.”
Kelly looked confused. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked.
“We only just found out ourselves,” said Howard.
“And I really should have been told that you’d be here today.”
“I don’t see why. You have your job to do, I have mine.”
“But if you thought the assassins were going to strike here, I should have been told.”
Howard took a deep breath. “Like I said, we just wanted Cramer here to see if he could recognise anybody. He’ll be sticking close to the President for the next few days while we continue to look for the snipers.”
“I wish you’d stop hiding things from me,” she said. “It’s as if you’re deliberately trying to make me look stupid.”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” she retorted. “You’ve resented me being part of this investigation right from the start.”
Heads began turning to see what the argument was about. Clutesi was watching the two of them, scratching his chin thoughtfully.
“That’s not true, Kelly,” said Howard. “Besides, I don’t think this is the place to be having this discussion.”
“Where would you rather have it? In a bar? The way I hear it, you function better with a few drinks inside you.”
“That’s not called for,” said Howard quietly.
“Yeah? Once a drunk, always a drunk, that’s what I say,” she said. “We all know that if it wasn’t for your father-in-law you wouldn’t even be with the Bureau.” For a moment it looked as if she wanted to slap him across the face, but then she turned on her heels and walked away.
Howard could feel his heart racing and he fought to contain his anger. “I wonder what’s got her so riled up?” said Clutesi.
“She’s just an evil bitch,” said Howard.
“I don’t think so,” said Clutesi. “I think there’s more to it than that.”
Through the open window of his hotel room, Carlos watched the President’s helicopter climb into the air and fly away from the stadium like a monstrous insect. Carlos linked the fingers of his hands and cracked his knuckles. In the distance he heard the first few bars of the Star Spangled Banner echoing around the ballpark. He checked that his microphone was clipped to the collar of his shirt and that his earpiece was firmly in place, then he carried the television set over to the dressing table. He took a pillow from the bed, placed it on top of the TV, then drew up a chair and sat down. The TV provided a perfect rest for the rifle, and the pillow would add extra stability and help dampen the recoil. Next to the television set he put the P228 and its silencer.
Lined up on the table were three gleaming brass cartridges. He picked up one and rolled the smooth metal between his fingers.
“Dina, this one is for you,” he whispered. He kissed the cartridge and slotted it into the breech. The first shot to break the glass, the second for the President’s chest. If there was time, a third. It would be the greatest achievement of his life: the assassination of the President of the United States. The IRA might take the blame, but the credit would be his. His heart thudded and he took a deep breath to steady his nerves. He had to banish all anxiety from his mind, he had to focus on the target, not the man. In the distance, he heard a deep, throaty voice begin to sing the National Anthem.
Patrick Farrell scanned the instrument panel and turned the blimp’s nose slightly to the left. He looked at the altimeter. They were four hundred feet above the ground and Farrell was trying to put the airship in exactly the right position. He was using the GPS, VOR and DME equipment as primary navigation aids, but the final adjustment would have to be done visually by Bailey using the laser sight. During rehearsals earlier in the year they’d pinpointed an intersection of an alley and a road which was exactly two thousand yards from the pitcher’s mound. If the airship was directly above the intersection, it was in the perfect position for Lovell’s shot. Farrell was nudging the airship over the school, making small, precise corrections of the control wheel and rudders. He looked at the reading of the wind computer. Once he had the blimp stationary in the air, using the twin engines to hold it steady, he would be able to read the wind speed and direction and relay it to the snipers in time for them to make their wind corrections.
“Almost there,” said Farrell in his headset. “I’ll tune the radio to the general frequency.”
Bailey looked over his shoulder and nodded as Farrell turned the dial to the frequency the snipers were using. Lovell was kneeling by the open window, his eye pressed to the scope of his rifle. He was as still as a stone statue, and Bailey could barely see the man’s chest rise and fall as he breathed. Behind Bailey, a pool of blood was slowly spreading out from under the two corpses. He put his eye to the telescopic sight. Down below he could see the small red dot of the laser dancing on the roof of a black Cadillac. The alley was to the left of the dot and Bailey began calling out instructions to Farrell, guiding him slowly to the exact spot where Lovell would make his shot.
Marty Edberg clenched his knuckles and glared at the television monitor. The shot of the giant scoreboard was wavering as if the man operating the camera had Parkinson’s Disease.
“Wendy,” he said through gritted teeth, “tell Lonnie to get a grip on himself, will you? Tell him if he can’t give me a steady shot I’ll come out there and rip his throat out with my bare hands.”
Edberg’s assistant spoke quietly into her microphone and the picture on the monitor steadied.
