cheeks were flushed with anger, but it worked for her. If he didn’t know better, he might have pegged her as a fresh-faced grad student, the enthusiasm making her seem a few years younger than her age. Because he did know better, he felt a little bit sorry for her; the Secret Service was an environment thoroughly dominated by alpha males, and someone who looked like Jodie Rivers would have had to work twice as hard to be taken seriously. He was sure that her current position had not come easily.
He let the thought go and tried to think of what else to ask her, but she was way ahead of him. “Do you need a vehicle?”
“No, I have one.” Harper was going to be stuck at Tyson’s Corner for the rest of the day, and had given Ryan the use of his forest green ’98 Explorer. “They’re still taking 12th back to the White House, right?”
She glanced at him, hesitated, then nodded. If Landrieu said he was cleared… “That’s right, for the most part. Since 12th Street is closed for construction between Pennsylvania and H, we have to turn onto 13th. We’re scheduled to head back around 11:40. Some of that depends on the weather. We’re supposed to be getting hit pretty hard this afternoon.”
“I heard it might pass us,” Ryan said, looking up as if to confirm the rumor.
“Yeah, well…” she shrugged as the president emerged from the vehicle and flashed a broad grin at the press pool, which immediately responded with a number of clamorous questions. “We’ll see.”
Despite the fact that he had not slept in almost twenty-eight hours, Vanderveen could feel the energy coursing through his body. It was hard to remain seated in the chair, and the mind-numbing scenery offered by the hotel window did little to alleviate his boredom.
He had been surprised and gratified by the extent of MSNBC’s coverage of the event. The cameras had transmitted a live broadcast of the president’s motorcade nearly twenty minutes earlier. A quick count had yielded thirty-six vehicles, which was something of a relief, as it told him that Shakib’s document had probably not been compromised. Of course, if it had, 12th Street would almost certainly not have been closed down, but it was reassuring to see that the Secret Service felt secure in its preparations.
It had never been his intention to attack the motorcade before the meeting took place. It was afterward, when they had already professed their profound commitment to one another, that the sudden death of the American president would do the most damage to the fragile coalition. And he was so very close…
He checked his watch: 9:31 AM. He smiled to himself. It was hard to believe it had all come down to these moments. Staring out the window, he marveled at the changes that would soon be taking place. The buildings at the intersection would suffer the most. Soon they would be faceless rooms, no longer marked by rough stone walls and sparkling windows, but by tangled steel and crumbling concrete, and the shattered bodies of those unfortunate people who resided within.
He was so lost in the images of fire and destruction that he didn’t immediately notice the solitary figure moving up the street. His eyes opened a little bit wider, and he stood up and put his nose to the window to get a better look. When his suspicion was confirmed, his breath hissed out between his teeth and fogged the glass. You should have been paying attention, he thought, but it wasn’t a problem; he still had time.
Vanderveen looked around quickly, thinking about what he would need. The decision came quickly; he pulled on his heavy jacket, and grabbed his key card and passport. Reaching for his temporary visa, but then thinking, No, better not to try too hard. Then he was moving fast toward the door.
Ryan had enough confidence in Jodie Rivers to believe that she would make the calls she had promised. He was tired of hanging around, so after a brief conversation with the same agents he had seen manning the press entrance, he passed through the metal detector with minimal fuss and headed back toward Harper’s Explorer. It was parked on 7th Street facing north, but when he got in and looked through the windshield, he was suddenly struck by indecision.
The street in front of him was crowded with vehicles, and the same was true on the other side of the road. He could see police officers walking up and down the rows, calling in license plate numbers and performing quick visual checks. There would be just as many cars on the streets running into 12th, and it seemed like at least half the vehicles were some type of SUV, which was exactly what he was looking for.
He slapped his hands on the steering wheel in frustration and got out of the truck. The streets were crowded with commuters at this time of the morning, and there was little he could do from a slow-moving vehicle. It would be better to walk.
He started up 7th — the time-worn Beretta firmly secured in a drop holster at the small of his back — nodding a greeting to the Metro cops that he passed on the street. He was shivering in the cold air, then remembered that he had left his jacket back in Harper’s vehicle. He debated for a second, then looked again at the long rows of vehicles. The sight gave him a sense of the enormity of his task, after which the decision came easily enough, and he walked quickly back to the Explorer.
After all, if he was going to be unproductive, he would at least be comfortable in the meantime. Soon he was coming back up the street, warmer in the leather jacket that still bore the tears and scuff marks from the Kennedy-Warren, and ready to begin what was sure to be a long and pointless search.
Jared Howson didn’t have the benefit of a jacket over his uniform, and had been cold ever since his shift had started nearly two hours earlier. He would have welcomed the relative, and certainly heated, comfort of the 1st District Station on 4th, but knew it could have been worse. After all, he only had this one street to worry about, and it wasn’t hard work. Simply look at the car, call in the license plate, do a quick visual scan, and move on to the next one. That was all the information he’d been given, but Howson had been on the force long enough to realize that the extra security had something to do with the presidential boating trip and the terrorist attacks that had rocked the city less than a month earlier. He had been as outraged as any American over what had taken place, and even more so than most because he was a guardian of law in this particular city, and those bastards thought they could come here and blow up innocent people…
Just thinking about it always got to him, and he had to shake off the rising anger as he finished with a blue Toyota and moved on to the next vehicle. It was a large commercial van, and exactly the kind of thing he had been told to look for. A Ford Econoline, he could see, with Virginia plates and a dented exterior that had seen more than its fair share of fender benders. He was about to call in the tag number when he realized that the passenger door was open, and a man was retrieving something from inside the van.
“Excuse me, sir. Sir…?”
The man looked up, a notebook in his hand, wearing a big, friendly smile beneath the heavy beard. “Yes?”
Howson caught the accent right off the bat. “Is this your vehicle?”
“Yes, it is mine.”
Howson studied him carefully. In his pocket he had the same sheet of paper that had been distributed to the Secret Service agents at the marina, and he had taken the time to look at it back in the station. This man didn’t really resemble any of the superimposed photographs, although the general shape of the face was about right…
But that was true for at least 30 percent of the population, and the hair was all wrong. On top of that, the subject’s eyes were reportedly a vivid shade of green, and Howson was staring into flat brown eyes the color of oak. Not to mention the fact that the man was clearly French.
Still, just to be safe: “Do you have some identification, sir?”
The man hurried to comply, pulling his passport out of his heavy coat. “Of course, of course. Right here, monsieur.”
Howson accepted the burgundy booklet and peered at the cover: Communaute Europeenne, and beneath that, Republique Francaise. Inside, all the requisite information for one Claude Bidault and what appeared to be a U.S. entry stamp, although he wasn’t exactly sure what that was supposed to look like. Howson had never left the country, nor had he ever suffered from a burning desire to do so.
Satisfied, he handed the passport back to the man, who didn’t seem at all bothered by the officer’s inquiries.
“What is all this… activity? This is not usual, yes?”
“Actually, sir, your president is in town to meet with ours. I’m surprised you haven’t heard about it.”
“Ah…” The man beamed as though suddenly recalling that little fact, but the light of epiphany never reached his eyes. “That is correct. A big meeting, n’est-ce pas?”
The young police officer had to smile in response. “Yes, that’s right.” He moved closer to the van, taking the
