Point Of Impact

“But I don’t – ”

“What?”

“What secrets can this guy have? He’s a shooter, that’s all. He’s going to kill a great president. Let me be there and I can nab him with a.308 hollowpoint. That’s the nabbing he deserves.”

The colonel looked off.

“I’m going to tell you why we have to take him alive. I’m going to tell you why it’s absolutely imperative that we take him alive. It may turn out that you weren’t the first American he shot and that Donny wasn’t the second.”

“He had an earlier tour in ’Nam?”

“He had an earlier tour, all right. But it wasn’t in ’Nam. We have a very good authenticated sighting of him in Mexico City, Swagger. It’s on film, Mexico City. November eighteenth, 1963. Our people trailed him. They lost him at the airport. There were three flights from Mexico City on November eighteenth, 1963. To Dallas, Texas.”

The colonel held him in his eyes for a long time.

“We’ve been working on this a long, long time, Swagger. We want this boy. We want him so bad. He’s an old dog, and we want him because then we can find the answers to some very interesting questions.”

“I understand,” said Bob. “I was out of line. I apologize.”

“All right,” said the colonel. “For the record my name is Raymond Davis. I’m a senior plans officer in the Central Intelligence Agency, as you have no doubt guessed. This operation is code-named Ginger Dragon, and it involves over three hundred men. Do you understand that everything I’ve told you is absolutely top secret?”

“Yes, sir.”

“We’ll need seasoned spotters, Swagger. Men on scopes who can find Solaratov for us so that we can take him. Nobody’s better on a scope than you.”

“I suppose that’s true.”

“No rifles. Just give us your eyes and your brains. Be on our team. No solo work. You just work with us to take this guy. Pay him back for Donny Fenn that way. Pay him back for all of us. That’s how you nail him, Bob. Can you nail him like that?”

“I’ll nail him,” said Bob.

He had another of his bad, sleepless nights, and woke up swaddled in drenched sheets, his hip aflame, the image of the light gone from Donny’s blank eyes forever strobing in his mind.

Goddamn him, he thought, thinking of the man hunting him as he had hunted so many others.

He felt greedy for vengeance and he knew it could make him stupid and sloppy, and he wished again he had a way to protect himself, not from them, whoever they really were, but from himself, his own greed and self-indulgence.

And then an idea came to him. It was so simple really: it involved a few minutes’ welding, a certain adjustment, and at least from one angle he was protected from their use if they tried to use him in a certain way.

He laughed about it after he was finished. It was such a little thing. He reassembled the Remington.308, wiped it down with Sheath to keep the moisture away, and replaced it in his gun vault. Like to see the look on somebody’s poke when they pulled the trigger on that one!

He slept dreamlessly.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Beneath the Presidential Security Detail and the Site Preparation Team, at the furthest reaches of the security pyramid, was that blur of extra bodies known as “Cooperating Agencies” and it was well within this blur, sitting in an automobile with a cold cup of coffee, a red lapel button and an attitude problem, that Nick Memphis found himself at nine-thirty in the morning on the day of the president’s speech. He was one of several thousand cops, FBI agents, military personnel and the like who had to surrender their weekend because the president, ever mindful that his popularity ratings in the Latino communities, so high after the war, had begun to slip just a bit, and so he had chosen to give the Freedom Medal to the Salvadoran archbishop Jorge Roberto Lopez.

Nick was by himself, which didn’t please him much; he’d somehow expected more, having kibitzed so valiantly with the Secret Service advance detail over the preceding three weeks, been loyal and obedient as any dog, doing Howdy Duty’s bidding whenever possible and with a smile on his face. But at intense moments all institutions default to turf warfare, and Nick was pained to discover that Secret Service did not want the Bureau anywhere near the zone of its highest visibility and responsibility, so he’d been exiled to a further outpost of the empire of security. Worse, Mickey Sontag, his most recent partner, was sick; so poor Nick had to spend all of game day by himself.

He now sat a good four blocks off the motorcade route and the site of the speech, parked on St. Ann Street in the Quarter, a block or two down from Bourbon’s luridness and the crush of tourism. Around him were old brick residences, all quaint, all pastel, all shuttered. Ahead, in the far distance, he could see the grotesque wrought-iron arch that signified the entrance to Louis Armstrong park on North Rampart, one reason why the White House had chosen the site: access to it, through that gate, was so limited. There were still worries, left over from the Persian Gulf War, about terrorists. The sun above was bright and now and then people would stream by, in hopes of getting a good early location on the president’s motorcade or a good seat for his speech.

Idly, Nick listened to the security network, Channel 21 on his radio unit, as Phil Mueller held the whole thing together from a Secret Service communications center on the roof of the Municipal Auditorium, which was just off the site of the speech.

“Ah, this is Airport, we have Flashlight on the ground and taxiing toward the hangar.”

“Reading you, Airport, this is Base Six.”

Nick recognized Mueller’s authoritarian voice over the radio; he knew that Howdy Duty would be standing right next to him, really there more for public relations, to keep the Bureau’s profile high, than for any meaningful security reasons. Nick tried to generate some feeling for Utey, pro or con. But he couldn’t get himself to hate the guy, even after Tulsa all those years ago. Hate just wasn’t in Nick, not a bit of it.

“All teams in place, we are waiting momentarily for Flashlight to disembark.”

“Thank you, Airport, please confirm when Flashlight is out of plane and motorcade is proceeding.”

“Reading you and roger that, Base Six.”

“Uh, people, Game time coming up, I want to run a last security check, make sure everybody’s on station. So by the numbers, I want you to check in and give me a sitrep.”

One by one the security units checked in, a torrent of radiospeak and bored, commanding voices crackling and soupy over the distorting radio network – all of them, because Mueller was a stickler. That was three helicopter teams, over fifty men spread around on rooftops, maybe seventy-five police units at various intersections on and nearby the motorcade route, all the high-powered lookout posts in the immediate vicinity of the site, and of course the hot dogs of the Presidential Security Detail, many of whom had come ahead and were already in position on site.

When it came time for Nick, he was on the ball.

“Ah, Base Six, this is Bureau Four, I’m on station on St. Ann, ah, all activity normal, I’ve got nothing on rooftops or any visible window activity.”

“Affirmative, Bureau Four, keep your eyes open, Nick,” said Mueller.

The touch of personal recognition pleased Nick, not that it meant a damned thing.

“Four out,” he said, and went back to eyeballing whatever was around him, which was not much. He squirmed uncomfortably, because the Smith 1076 was held in the Bureau’s de rigueur high hip carry in a pancake holster above his right buttock, and though the pistol was flat, unlike a revolver, it still bit into him. Many agents secretly kept their pistols in glove compartments when they drove around, but it was Nick’s law to always play by every rule, and so he just let the thing gnaw on him under his suitcoat.