Waldorf. New York was already as stirred up about Jack and Jill as Washington, D.C. That was good. It would make everything easier.
There was something he had to do now. He had to do this, no matter what the risks. It was the most important thing to him.
At the corner of Lexington Avenue and Forty-seventh Street, he stopped at a pay phone booth. Surprisingly, the damn contraption actually worked. Maybe the only one that did in midtown.
As he dialed, he watched a garish street hooker plying her trade across Lexington. Nearby, a middle-aged gay man was picking up a blond teenager. Urban cowboys and girls sashayed into a peculiar New York bar called Ride'm High. He mourned for the old New York, for America as it had been, for real cowboys and real men.
He had important and necessary work to do in New York. Jack and Jill was heading toward its climax. He was confident that the real truth would go to his grave with him. It had to be like that.
The truth had always been far too dangerous for the public to know. The truth didn't usually set people free, it just got them crazier.
Most people just couldn't handle the truth.
He finally reached a number in Maryland. There was a very small risk in the phone call, but he had to take it. He had to do this one thing for his own sanity.
A little girl's voice came on the phone. Immediately, he felt the most incredible relief, but also a joy he hadn't experienced in days. The girl sounded as if she were right there in New York.
“This is Karon speaking. How may I help you?” she said.
He had taught her to answer the phone.
He closed his eyes tight, and all of New York's depressing tawdriness, everything he was about to do was suddenly, effectively, shut out. Even Jack and Jill was gone from his thoughts for the briefest of moments. He was in a safety zone. He was home.
His little girl was what really counted for him now. She was the only thing that mattered. She'd been permitted to wait up late for his call.
He wasn't Jack as he cradled the phone receiver against his chin.
He wasn't Sam Harrison.
“It's Daddy,” he said to his youngest child. 'Hello, pumpkin-eater.
I miss you to bits. How are you? Where's Mommy?“ he asked. ”Are you guys taking good care of each other? I'll be home real soon. Do you miss me? I sure miss you.'
He had to get away. with this, he thought as he talked to his daughter, and then to his wife. Jack and Jill had to succeed.
He had to change history. He couldn't go home in a body bag. In disgrace. As the worst American traitor since Benedict Arnold.
No, the body bag was for President Thomas Byrnes. He deserved to die. So had all the others. They were all traitors in their own way Jack and Jill came to The Hill To kill, to kill, to kill.
And soon -- very soon -- it would be finished.
SOMETHING was clearly wrong at the hotel. We hadn't been at the Waldorf for more than a few minutes when I knew there was a serious breach in security I could see the way the Secret Service agents closed around President Byrnes and his wife as they entered the glittery hotel foyer.
Thomas and Sally Byrnes were hurriedly being escorted to their suite of rooms on the twenty-first floor. I knew the drill by heart. NYPD detectives had been working closely with the Secret Service detail. They had checked every conceivable and inconceivable method of infiltration into the Waldorf, including subways, sewers, and all the underground passages. Bomb-sniffing dogs had been marched through the midtown hotel just before our arrival. The dogs had also been taken that afternoon to the Plaza and the Pierre, other possible choices for the President's stay
“Alex.” I heard from behind. “Alex, over here. In here, Alex.”
Jay Grayer beckoned with his hand. “We've got a little problem already I don't know how they managed it, but they're definitely here in New York. Jack and Jill are here.”
“What the hell is going on here, Jay?” I asked the Secret Service agent as we hurried past glass cases filled with quart-size perfume bottles and expensive clothing accessories.
Jay Grayer led me to the hotel's administrative offices, which were directly behind the front desk on the lobby floor. The room was already filled with Secret Service, FBI agents, and New York City police honchos. Everybody seemed to be listening to earphones or hand transmitters. They looked stressed-out, including the hotel management, with their own director of security and the proud claim that every president since Hoover had stayed at the Waldorf.
Grayer finally turned to me and said, “A delivery of flowers came about ten minutes ago. They're from our friends Jack and Jill. There's another rhyme with the flowers.”
“Let's take a look at it. Let me see the message, please.”
The note was on a mahogany desk next to an arrangement of blood-red roses. I read it as Grayer looked over my shoulder.
Jack and Jill went up The Hill And surprised the Chief with flowers.
We're here in town We're counting down Your last remaining hours.
“They want us to believe they're a couple of kooks,” I said to Jay
“Do you?”
