the best efforts of al-Hassan and his men. They had vanished, and Tremont had heard nothing from al-Hassan since.
Despite his confidence that he had prepared for any emergency, it concerned him, and he studied the crowd for a sign of the pair. He wished to God he had never taken that phone call from Sophia Russell. Why had she remembered that momentary encounter more than a dozen years ago? Chance. The completely unforeseeable element in everything.
But it would not stop him.
He was just reanalyzing all his actions when the first blaring brass bars of “Hail to the Chief” began.
“We're on,” the president said with relish. “This is a grand moment, Dr. Tremont. Let's make the most of it.”
“Agreed, Mr. President. And thank you again for the honor.”
Ushered by the secret service, he and the president stepped out. Applause began with a trickle and quickly grew thunderous. The two men smiled and waved. Following instructions given him earlier, Tremont hung back so the president could march first toward the platform. He followed, trying to memorize the details of this exciting occasion. The platform was decorated with yards of red, white, and blue bunting. The podium was fronted by the presidential seal in blue and gold. Behind the platform rose a towering closed-circuit TV screen so everyone could view the dignitaries from around the world who would participate with live speeches.
The president first, they mounted the stairs to continuing applause. The six rows of seated dignitaries sprang to their feet to greet the president. There were all the members of the cabinet, including a beaming Nancy Petrelli; the chairman of the Joint Chiefs with his executive aide, Maj. Gen. Nelson Caspar; the New York congressional delegation; and the ambassadors of fifty nations.
At the podium, Surgeon General Jesse Oxnard, his massive head and mustache dominating everything, clapped with the others. At last he stepped to the podium to make introductions.
Jon and Randi stood among the crowd a few yards apart and near the back.
They had managed to evade their partly disabled pursuers and arrive in Long Lake a half hour ago, where they had searched along the packed sidewalks for ways to change their appearances. At last they had found an outdoor clothing store, then a toy store and a drugstore on the main street, which was one of the few highways that crossed the Adirondack Wilderness. They bought supplies at all three and used public restrooms to change. When they finally emerged, he was darker-skinned and looked as if he belonged in this mountain region. He wore bulky hunting pants, a plaid hunting coat, and a ragged black mustache detached from a child's mask. She was in a mousy gray dress, flat heels, hair darkened with shoe polish, and a straw hat.
There were enough foreign observers and journalists to distract everyone's attention, so most people gave them only a few curious glances. Still, from around the periphery and up on the platform itself, the secret service, FBI, and Blanchard's security people continually scanned the hordes, alert to any intrusion.
Jon and Randi shifted locations frequently. They kept their heads down and quiet, friendly smiles on their faces. They made certain their muscles appeared relaxed.
Once the band struck up “Hail to the Chief” and everyone was riveted as President Castilla and Victor Tremont strode toward the platform, Randi moved closer to Jon to whisper, “The woman with the short silver hair wearing the knit business suit is Nancy Petrelli, and the general in the second row behind Admiral Brose is Nelson Caspar.”
“I expect Ben Sloat and old General Salonen are here somewhere, too.”
Their plan was simple: Work their way far enough forward to get the president's personal attention, and they would try to shout out their story. To wave their documents. To accuse Tremont and his cohorts to their faces with everyone as witnesses, and maybe to make one or more of them panic and reveal themselves. At least, to convince the president to hear. After all, this was a public gathering.
That was at the best.
At the worst, they wanted to give Marty a chance to break into the closed-circuit broadcast so Mercer Haldane could confirm everything they claimed.
But first, they had to slip through the crowd without attracting the sharp eyes of the hundreds of public and private security who were watching for interlopers, troublemakers, terrorists… and them.
Muttering wildly to himself in the small TV studio, Marty worked feverishly at the computer in the state-of- the-art control room.
“Where are you, you beast! I know you're in there somewhere. Give me the code name and the password, damn you! Once more, the telephone company is…”
Mercer Haldane waited out in the studio with the four technicians and a series of blowups of the computer records. Behind them was a photographic backdrop of an Adirondack woodland scene, the high peaks of Whiteface and Marcy in the distance. Haldane's cheeks were sweating. He continually mopped them as he watched Marty through the control room window. He glanced often and nervously at his watch.
“…All right, yes! I have you. I'm into the telephone company. Now the line into the local TV cable station. Come on… come on… I know you want me to find you… yes, that's it… damnation!..”
At the studio door, Peter kept guard on the corridor, listening for any sounds of warning from Samson. He also glanced from time to time at his watch while he observed Marty's frantic efforts.
“. Ah-ha! Got you. Now, the control room. Here we go… here we… Zounds and putridity! You won't stop me… you can't…” Sweat dripped from Marty's face, and his fingers pounded the keyboard as he frantically searched for the key into the system.
As the surgeon general continued to talk, extolling the virtues of Victor Tremont and the wisdom of the president, Jon and Randi edged forward in parallel paths, slowly converging again as they advanced. Jon saw Victor Tremont's pockmarked killer, Nadal al-Hassan, in deep conversation with a man who looked as if he were the chief FBI agent present. Al-Hassan's arm swept over the crowd as he held a sheaf of photos in his lean hand. Jon did not have to guess whom the photos pictured. He repressed a worried groan.
The surgeon general's introduction ended, and the president stepped to the podium. His face was solemn as his gaze slowly traversed the faces in the audience and turned to do the same to all the dignitaries seated behind him. He continued on in a full circle across the vigilant backs of the secret service and Tremont's security team until he again faced the rapt crowd.
“These are terrible times,” he began. “The world suffers. Millions die. And yet we are here to celebrate. And it is entirely fitting that we should do so. The man we come to honor will go down in history not only as visionary but as a great humanitarian. He…”
As the president continued in rousing, cadenced tones, Jon and Randi moved inexorably forward, sometimes only a few steps, other times several feet at a time. They were careful to make no one angry. To attract no undue attention. And to appear to be enthralled with the president's speech as it came quickly to its peroration: “…It is my eternally grateful pleasure to present the nation's highest civilian award to Dr. Victor Tremont, a giant sun that will soon shed light on this great darkness into which we have all been plunged.”
Attempting to appear solemn but honored, humble but strong, while suppressing his real response of a loud, triumphal laugh, Victor Tremont moved toward the podium with what came out as a grotesque grimace. The medal was presented and accepted with a modest embarrassment, and the giant TV screen sprang to life with the image of the British prime minister towering over them all.
Nadal al-Hassan's mirrored black eyes slowly traversed the surging crowd. His face was expressionless, and his dark, narrow head moved like a praying mantis as his cold gaze paused on a face that resembled one or the other of his quarries, on a shoulder that looked familiar, on a military posture among the packed throng.
They would be here, he was sure. Smith had proved to be a far more resourceful and dangerous adversary than he had ever expected. He had little faith in the state or local police of this rustic town, in McGraw's private security force of old soldiers and retired policemen, or in the FBI, and he was well aware that the secret service agents would confine their vigilance to the immediate safety of the president. The protection of Victor Tremont and
