splashing around. I’d have a swim later. The door was kept locked, but your room key would open it.
The upper lobby’s arcade connected nearby, and I wandered back in, thinking over what I’d seen. A row of telephone booths, set in the mahogany walls, was on my right. I used one of the phones to call the number Freed had given me.
After several rings, Freed himself answered.
“Yes?” he said, thickly, obviously awakened by the call.
“This is Quarry.”
“Quarry!”
“That’s Jack Ryan to you.”
“Yes, certainly-what is it?”
“I’ve had a look around here at the Blackhawk Hotel. We better have that security briefing we talked about. Gather the key people who are going to be covering your butt at the press conference. I need to talk to them.”
“I can do that. When?”
“Is this afternoon too soon?”
“One o’clock?”
So I went in the front way this time, a hunting-jacketed sentry in the brown Ford climbing out to open the unpainted metal gate, and I drove down the paved drive, forest on either side of me, until I was driving along the edge of the quarry drop-off, the lake below shimmering with what little sunlight was filtering through today’s overcast.
I parked in back and was met by an armed guard in a brown leather bomber jacket and tan slacks; he had that same deputy sheriff look as some of those I’d stun-gunned last night, but I didn’t recognize this one, a round- faced man with rosy cheeks and thinning hair.
Me, I wasn’t in ninja black today, but spiffed up in a suit and tie and brown leather overcoat.
Freed came down the wooden stairway in back, off the kitchen, its railing freshly repaired, and greeted me with a smile and an extended hand. I shook it, smiled back. He was wearing a blue suede jacket and a light blue shirt with a string tie; his mane of white hair brushed neatly back, and the light blue eyes in the tanned face, made him seem almost otherworldly.
“Jack,” he said, “it’s good to see you again.” And he slipped his arm around my shoulder.
“Been a long time,” I said.
Soon we were in the open-beamed conference room, where the oil portrait of Freed as a riverboat captain held sway; at a large table sat four men, two of whom I recognized. All four stood as Freed introduced me, and one by one shook hands with me.
One of them was campaign manager Frank Neely, he of the steel-gray gaze and fleshy, intelligent face. He was wearing a sweatshirt that said WHY NOT A REAL PRESIDENT? VOTE FREED, with the last word given extra prominence by a somewhat protruding belly.
“Mr. Ryan,” he said, smiling warily, “please excuse my informality-this was a last-minute meeting…”
The other one that I recognized was a thirtyish, somewhat heavy-set, balding blond guy, who I’d met in this very room last night, introducing myself by way of a brass Presidential seal in the belly. He was dressed much the same as the night before: blue workshirt and jeans. When we shook hands he kept his grip insolently limp, dark eyes drilling into me, his smile a scowl. His name, Freed said, was Larry.
“You can stuff the apology,” Larry said, sneering.
“What apology?” I said.
“Larry,” Freed said. “Just sit down.”
Larry sat down and did a slow burn. Nobody’s favorite stooge.
The other two men were named Blake and Simmons; one had brown hair and the other blond, but they were pretty much interchangeable, a pair of oversize WASP ex-cops who had probably been football players in college or anyway high school. Linebackers, I’d say. They were, Freed had informed me last night, his security chiefs on the primary swing.
Both had firm grips; both smiled without revealing any warmth-or teeth, for that matter.
We all sat, except Freed, who stood at the head of the table, his back to the fireplace, which was going, his own portrait looking over his shoulder.
“Jack Ryan is an old friend of mine,” Freed said, beaming at me, so convincing a liar I almost had memories of our friendship, “who also happens to be one of the best security men around. Yesterday he handed Frank here a line, and Frank was ready to set up a meeting between Jack and myself, without running any kind of security check first. I think we’ve learned something, haven’t we, Frank?”
Freed said this gently, and Neely seemed to take it well, smiling a little, though the smile was tight at its corners.
The candidate continued, in his mellifluous baritone: “Last night-as Larry can tell you first hand-Jack ran a little test on my security team here at the house. We came up a little short, didn’t we, Larry?”
“Yes, Mr. Freed.”
“We’re going to be making some changes. Adding some staff. Changing some procedures. But that’s not why Mr. Ryan is here today. Jack, would you like to take over?”
Freed sat and I stood.
“As the candidate probably has told you,” I said, “we have reason to believe an assassination attempt may be made at the press conference Tuesday morning.”
Blake-or was it Simmons? — chimed in. “With all due respect, Mr. Ryan,” he said in a gravelly voice (maybe he’d been a tackle), “we got that covered.” He opened his coat and revealed the holstered revolver there.
“Ah, a. 38,” I said.
He nodded.
“Must help you remember your I.Q.”
Simmons-or was it Blake? — glowered at me, but I got over it.
“First suggestion,” I said, looking at Freed, “is you change the site of the press conference. But don’t announce the change till the last minute.”
“That’s impossible,” Neely said, shaking his head. “It would be a logistical nightmare, and make for very bad relations with the media.”
I looked at Simmons and Blake. “Have you people scoped out the Bix Beiderbecke Room?” I looked at Freed. “Appropriately named, ’cause you could die before your time there.”
Freed was watching me intently. “Why do you say that, Jack?”
“If I were doing this thing,” I said, “I could shoot you and be on my way, in my car, moving, in under thirty seconds.”
Simmons and Blake smirked at each other, eyes rolling.
But Freed said, “Explain.”
“An assassin staying in the hotel could take the elevator from his room down to the parking garage entry area, walk down the steps to the Bix Beiderbecke Room, block the meeting room door at left-with a table or whatever-open the door at right, getting a direct shot at the speaker at the podium, take that shot, quickly block that door, run up the steps, walk to his car-either in the garage or on the street-and be gone before anybody’s figured out whether the candidate’s dead or not.”
Neely said, “It would be difficult to change locations. Not impossible perhaps, but…”
Freed said, “The location stays. What can we do to secure that location, Jack?”
I sighed. “Well. Post several men outside the conference room. They need detailed descriptions of the man we believe will be attempting the hit-which I’ll provide-but they just generally will need to play heads-up ball. For what’s at stake, our man could easily shoot more people than just the candidate. How big is your security force?”
Blake-or was it Simmons? — said, “Half a dozen.”
“Armed, of course,” the other one said.
“Add a couple men,” I said. “You have the advantage of knowing that he’s coming.”
“Are you convinced of that now?” Freed said.
“After seeing the set-up for the press conference,” I said, “I tend to be. Anybody wanting a crack at you would be crazy not to take advantage of this. Will there be any cops on hand?”
