Something would be activated from this laptop!
The small box was a timer clock.
It was counting down!
81
Cold Butte, Montana
The papal entourage arrived at the school.
The pope entered the foyer, where he first embraced
Father Andrew Stone.
“God bless you, my brother.” The pontiff smiled. Brilliant light flashes rained on them as news cameras from around the world photographed the meeting. “Welcome, Eminence.” Stone introduced the pope to the line of local officials and school staff backed by hundreds of wildly happy students.
After small presentations and a brief tour, the pope entered the gym, triggering applause and camera flashes as TV crews jostled for angles.
Having hosted state basketball championships, the gymnasium was the largest in the region. But today it seemed small. Nearly eight hundred people in their
Sunday best filled rows of folding chairs and bleachers, and crammed the balcony at the back.
Amid the clapping, Walker pressed on his earpiece while he responded to a radio status check and took stock of the venue.
The children in the choir were in place on the stage. Uniformed police and newspeople lined the walls.
FBI and Secret Service marksmen were concealed in strategic points throughout the gym. Federal agents in plain clothes had been inserted into the audience. Special closed-circuit security cameras had been in stalled to watch the crowd. They were monitored from the command post truck parked among the scores of emergency vehicles encircling the building. Walker and the other Secret Service agents took points at stage right and stage left.
Onstage, the pope stood at his chair, spread his hands and smiled to the audience, telegraphing his love. Next came welcoming remarks from more local, county and state officials as the agents and security cameras continued scanning the crowd.
They were as ready as they would ever be, Walker thought and offered every cop’s prayer.
Lord, please don’t let anything happen on my watch.
82
Cold Butte, Montana
As the choir prepared, bits of information buzzed in the back of Walker’s mind.
Yesterday’s false alarms, the unconfirmed intel from Issa about a planned attack, the explosion at Malm strom.
Did the pieces go together?
The traffic deaths, the call from Graham, the Mountie, still pursuing Tarver- why call now? — the security breach by the distraught woman. Something familiar.
From Blue Rose Creek, California.
She knew Walker’s name. How could that be?
Walker began making a mental link. Didn’t the Mountie go to California? Blue Rose Creek, California? Didn’t Tarver’s final wild theory concern a planned attack?
Walker’s earpiece crackled.
“Agent Walker, this is Baker in command. Sir, please go to your cell phone now for a call patch from Lone Tree emergency dispatch.”
“What? No, I can’t take one now, pass it to-”
His response was ignored, his phone vibrated. He cursed then answered.
“Agent Walker, this is Corporal Graham of the RCMP.”
Gripping her digital camera, Samara sat in the front row of the gym in her new suit.
Her fingers caressed the camera’s buttons as she tried to bring her pulse rate to normal. Any anxiety she betrayed fit with the event.
Her heart was still racing from her encounter with Logan’s mother. It was fortunate Samara had recog nized her from Jake’s photos.
How did she track them down to Cold Butte? It meant she knew something.
Samara looked around.
Did others know?
Thank heaven she was able to turn Logan away before he recognized her. It confirmed that her mission was destined because she was protected.
Soon. Very soon.
Three songs and six seconds. One minute to activate, then she could detonate. She brushed the button and welcomed a kaleidoscope of memories, giving her the sensation that she was floating.
She was a few feet from the pope.
Before anyone could stop her, it would be done.
Once the applause faded, Sobil Mounce-Bazley, the choir director, tapped her baton on her podium.
The shuffle of programs and throat-clearing under
Six Seconds 453 scored the nervous tension as the magnitude of the event registered with the children.
The helicopters, the police, TV news lights, camera flashes and all these people.
This was such a huge deal.
The man sitting over there was the pope.
This was a once-in-a-lifetime moment.
Sobil commanded the full attention of her singers but Logan couldn’t stop thinking about his mother.
He had to find a way to call her again. And that incident with the crazy lady a few minutes ago was freaking him out. She’d sounded a bit like his mom.
And where was his dad?
Logan searched the audience for his father, even his mother, when Sobil tapped the baton and shot him a look.
Time to begin.
Phone tight to his ear, Walker had stepped aside to take Graham’s urgent call.
The children’s voices filled the gym with the first song as Graham quickly explained the links: Jake Conlin’s homicide; Samara’s martyr video; the Tarver murders; the traffic deaths; Maggie.
Everything.
The pieces fit.
“You’ve got to do something, Walker!”
“Give me her name again! She could be listed.”
“Samara. Last name could be Russell or Ingram. I’m watching this thing play on her computer at the house.” Graham had rifled through files and bills in the house. He detailed Samara’s description as the live network coverage cut from the pope, to the choir, to audience reaction and back to the pope. “Walker, she’s got to be there. I’m watching it live-there! That’s her! There she is! That’s her!”
“Where?”
“Grab her!”
“Where!”
“Front row. Taupe suit, dark hair, getting ready to take a picture.”
