“Thank you,” said Edberg. On the main monitor, a bulky, cowboy-hatted country and western singer was putting every ounce of effort into his rendition of the Star Spangled Banner, and the picture was so sharp that Edberg could see the tears welling up in the man’s eyes.
“Wendy, get me a close-up of the flag, and then we’ll superimpose the singer on it,” he said. His assistant spoke quickly to one of the cameramen and monitor number three soon had a tight shot of a fluttering Stars and Stripes. She moved one of the sliders and slowly brought up the flag on the main monitor so that it rippled like a ghost behind the singer. “Good,” said Edberg approvingly.
The light on the phone in front of Wendy blinked and she picked it up. After listening for a few moments she handed the receiver over to Edberg. “It’s the Secret Service guy, he wants to know why we don’t have the airship pictures yet.”
Edberg looked at monitor ten. The screen was still blank. “Tell him I’d like to know the reason, too,” said Edberg. “Tell him we can’t reach the blimp, we’re assuming they’re having technical problems.”
Wendy relayed the message, then covered the mouthpiece with her hand. “He says he wants to speak to you, Marty.”
Edberg glared at her. “Explain to Dick Tracy that we’re in the middle of putting out pictures that are being watched by millions of people, and that I’ll call him when I get the time. Just now, I’m busy.”
His long-suffering assistant nodded. Edberg glared at the ranks of monitors. The shot of the score board was wavering again. Edberg put his head in his hands.
Cole Howard and Don Clutesi had moved to the far wall of the sky box as the President and First Lady made small-talk with the Prime Minister. As soon as the National Anthem began everybody stood to attention and faced the diamond, knowing that it was a photo opportunity that would have all the newspaper and television cameras pointing their way. Everyone looked appropriately sombre, with the exception of the Secret Service agents, who continued to prowl around their charges. Bob Sanger stood two steps behind the President. Through his earpiece, Howard heard situation reports being called in from around the stadium.
Howard saw Joker come out of the tunnel and stop dead at the edge of the diamond as if he’d just realised that everyone in the stadium was standing stock still out of respect. Howard smiled at the man’s appalling plaid jacket. He looked across at Clutesi who was also grinning. Clutesi shrugged and Howard shook his head admonishingly. Howard saw that Joker was carrying a can of Budweiser and he groaned inwardly.
Howard surveyed the presidential party. The Prime Minister’s own security team seemed far more relaxed than the Secret Service agents. He wondered when they had last had to deal with an assassination attempt. He recalled the IRA attempt to hit Number 10 Downing Street with mortars and the bombing of a hotel during a Conservative Party conference, but assassinations with firearms seemed rare in Britain. Maybe it was something to do with the fact that gun ownership was restricted there or that the people had more respect for their authority figures than the Americans had for their President. On television, he’d seen British politicians and members of the British Royal Family moving through crowds, seemingly at ease, with little in the way of security. At sports events, too, they generally got much closer to the public than the President ever did, closer even than American movie stars got to their fans.
Howard frowned as he stared at the pitcher’s mound. He pulled his cellular phone out of his pocket and whispered to Clutesi that he was going out in the hallway. Clutesi had his hand over his heart as the anthem played.
Howard nodded to two Secret Service agents standing guard in the corridor, and moved away from them so that they couldn’t eavesdrop. He tapped out Andy Kim’s number in the White House and it was answered on the third ring by Bonnie Kim. She was surprised, and apparently delighted, to hear from him. He asked if her husband was there and she passed the telephone over to him.
“Andy, do me a favour. Can you call up the Baltimore ballpark and tell me what effect it would have if the target was on the pitcher’s mound,” said Howard.
“But I thought the President was in the sky box?” queried Andy.
“I know, I know, but I’ve just found out that the Prime Minister is throwing the first pitch, down on the mound. Try it for me, will you?”
“Sure, Cole, sure. Kelly Armstrong sent me a copy of the Prime Minister’s agenda but there’s nothing on it about him being on the mound or I’d have done it already. It’ll take a few minutes. Do you want me to call you back?”
“No, I’ll hold on.” Howard heard the National Anthem come to an end, and then in his earpiece he heard the Secret Service preparing to escort the Prime Minister and the First Lady down to the diamond where the manager of the Orioles was to present him with the game ball. “And Andy, please hurry.”
Patrick Farrell looked down and made a slight adjustment to the power and turned the nose of the airship into the wind. The movement resulted in a sideways drift and he looked down and tried to line up with the corner of the road and the alley by following Bailey’s terse instructions.
“Good, that’s good,” said Bailey through his headset. “Six feet more.” On the ground below the airship, the small red dot moved inexorably towards the alley. Bailey lifted his head and saw Lovell still with the rifle to his cheek. Bailey wanted some sign from the sniper that everything was okay, but Lovell ignored him.
Bailey looked down through the scope again. The red dot was slowly moving across the pavement. “Steady,” he said.
Farrell eased off on the power to the engines. The GPS display hadn’t changed for some time, an indication of Farrell’s skill at manoeuvring the airship, but it was only accurate to fifty feet or so. The rest was up to Bailey.
“That’s it, perfect,” said Bailey. Farrell wiped the back of his arm across his forehead and it came away damp. In the distance, the pilot could see Secret Service agents gathering around the pitcher’s mound.
Joker took a long pull at his can of Budweiser. It was too warm for his taste but he needed the alcohol rather than the refreshment. One of the Secret Service agents stared at him and looked as if he was about to say something, but Joker pointed to the ID hanging around his neck. Joker drained the can and tossed it behind him. The crowd roared and cheered as the Country and Western singer finished his rendition of the National Anthem. In Joker’s ear a buzzing voice told him that Parliament was making his way down from the sky box. The agents around the mound visibly tensed.
Joker put his binoculars to his eyes and began scanning the crowds. He wanted to get Mary Hennessy so badly that he could almost taste it. He raised the binoculars higher and winced as it put his injured shoulder under strain. He was hot and the bullet-proof vest was a torture to wear. He considered taking it off because it covered such a small area of his body. He doubted that the limited protection it offered was worth the discomfort.
Cole Howard kept his cellular phone pressed to his left ear. The constant Secret Service transmissions in his right ear were irritating, but he knew they were necessary so he didn’t remove the earpiece. He heard Sanger calling ahead that Parliament was leaving the sky box and he flattened himself against the wall of the corridor so that he wouldn’t be in the way when the entourage went by on the way to the escalator.
Two agents came out of the sky box, looked up and down, and then headed towards him. Another two agents followed, and then Howard saw the Prime Minister and the First Lady. The Prime Minister walked slowly, a half step behind the First Lady, and he had a worried frown as if he was dreading the forthcoming pitch. Howard wanted to tell him that throwing the first pitch was a rare honour, one that most baseball fans would die for. The Prime Minister looked at him and Howard smiled, wanting to show some support, but the FBI agent’s gesture was ignored and the Prime Minister’s face remained a stone mask. Howard felt stupid, standing there with an inane grin on his face, and he turned the smile into a face-stretching exercise as if his eyes were itching.
“Cole?” It was Andy Kim on the phone.
“Yes, Andy?”
“Okay, this is a rough calculation, but I reckon that so far as the buildings nearest the ballpark are concerned, that’s the Marriott Hotel and the Holiday Inn and the offices nearby, you’d be looking at two floors lower if they were aiming at the pitcher’s mound. For the buildings a mile or so away you’d drop about four floors. Is that any help?”
“Yeah, thanks Andy. One more thing — does dropping the target to the mound mean you get a match for the long shot?”
“Afraid not, Cole, There’s still nothing anywhere near that position.”
“Okay, thanks. I’ve got to go, I’ll call you later.”
Howard switched the phone off and went back to the sky box. Sanger was standing by the door. He nodded
