48
THE SECRET SERVICE ADVANCE team touched down in Pittsburgh at seven A.M., and the equivalent of a small army rolled off the planes and headed directly to Brennan. The president traveled hundreds of times each year. And at least several days before he got to a particular location the Secret Service sent a regiment of agents who would spend collectively thousands of hours checking every conceivable detail to ensure that the trip would be uneventful from a security standpoint.
Since the president had numerous trips planned on his campaign and would hop from one state to another, there were multiple advance teams out in the field, which had stretched the Service’s manpower. Normally, an advance team would have a full week to do its work, but because of the number of events President Brennan had booked on the campaign, the Service had had to prioritize. Events deemed lower risk were allotted less advance time. With higher-risk events the Service had its usual week to prepare. The Brennan, Pennsylvania, event had been deemed low risk for a number of factors. Of course, what that meant for Alex Ford and the rest of the advance team was that they would have to cram a week’s worth of work into a few days.
The Service set up shop at the largest hotel in Brennan, taking over an entire floor. It had been renamed the Sir James, in honor of the president’s first name. That had caused about ten minutes of funny one-liners from the field agents, until their leaders came within earshot. One room became the communications center and was consequently stripped of all furniture and completely debugged. From this point until the Service left there’d be no room service or maids allowed there.
That afternoon the Service met with members of the local police forces. As Alex watched, the lead advance agent faced the cadre of law enforcement officers while briefing books were handed out.
“Just remember,” he warned. “In another room near here there may be a group of people planning to do the exact opposite of what we’re trying to accomplish.”
Alex had heard this spiel many times, but as he looked around the room, he couldn’t believe that many of those present were buying the line. Still, Alex, with all his experience, discounted nothing. Secret Service agents were paranoid by nature. While Brennan didn’t look like a potential trouble spot, no one had expected Bobby Kennedy to be shot in the kitchen of a hotel. James Garfield bought it at a train station; William McKinley went down at a rope line after having been shot by a man who wrapped his revolver inside a “bandage”; Lincoln was gunned down in a theater and JFK in his open limo.
Potential motorcade routes from the airport to the ceremonial grounds were discussed, and possible trouble spots with each were considered. Then the group broke into smaller units, and Alex found himself asking the usual questions of the local law enforcement. Had gun sales peaked? Were any police uniforms missing? Were there any local threats against the president? What were the locations of the nearest hospitals and potential safe houses?
After that, they drove out to the site. Alex walked the ceremonial grounds and helped establish sniper posts. He eyed the area, locating what the Service referred to as the assassin’s funnel. You had to think like a killer. Where, how and when could the person be expected to strike?
The stage was finished, and a work crew was putting the finishing touches on lighting and sound and the two giant TV screens that would allow the crowd to see the president up close, at least digitally.
To Alex’s experienced eye the place looked reasonably doable from a protection point of view. The single entry and exit for vehicular traffic was both bad and good for obvious reasons. Still, the president wouldn’t be here that long. Two hours tops.
As Alex drove back into Brennan, he looked around the small town. It had long been a Service myth that the best time to rob a bank was when the president was in town, because every cop within twenty miles would be watching him and not the townspeople’s money. Alex had a feeling that adage would be pretty accurate here. There were no cops anywhere.
Back in his hotel room Alex decided to go for a run. He’d gone through college on a track scholarship, and, despite his neck injury, he ran whenever he could. It was one of the few things keeping him from feeling totally washed up physically. He hit the main street and headed east, passed the hospital and then turned left and picked up his pace as he headed north. A van passed him. He had no reason to look over and didn’t. He wouldn’t have recognized the woman anyway. Nor did Djamila look in his direction as she drove by with the three boys in the back.
Next Alex passed an auto repair facility with its blacked-out windows. Hidden behind them was a lot of work going on as a new vehicle was fashioned. If Alex had been aware of the plot, he would’ve charged into the garage and arrested everyone there. But he wasn’t aware, so he just kept jogging. Indeed, the downtown area of Brennan held little interest for Alex because the president would never be coming here. The ceremony at the dedication grounds would constitute the entire program.
After he had showered back at his hotel room, Alex went to volunteer for another chunk of work that night. Might as well do all he could to get back into the Service’s good graces.
While Alex was working away up in Brennan, Kate was busy too. She’d risen very early that day and eaten breakfast with Lucky. She asked the older woman a favor, which Lucky quickly granted.
After that, Kate had gone to the carriage house, sat down at her small desk and planned out her attack on Oliver Stone. Alex had said that he had run Stone’s prints through all the usual databases and come up with zilch. To Kate, that could only mean one of two things: Either the man had never held a position requiring a fingerprint check or else his identity had been erased from those databases so completely that whoever Oliver Stone really was had ceased to exist. She wrote down some possible lines of inquiries and then mapped out her strategy in the same manner she would a legal case. Satisfied, she quickly showered and headed out.
A little later she parked as close to Mt. Zion Cemetery as she could and then waited. It was only seven-thirty in the morning, but as she watched, Stone emerged from his cottage and headed off down the street. Kate ducked down in her car so he couldn’t see her. When he was almost out of sight, a surprising thing happened. Adelphia came out from behind some parked cars on Q Street and started following Stone. Kate thought for a moment and then put the car in gear. She quickly caught up to Adelphia and rolled down her window.
At first Adelphia pretended not to know who she was, but Kate persisted and Adelphia finally said self- consciously, “Oh, yes, it is you I know now.” Then she cast an anxious glance in Stone’s direction. He was almost out of sight.
“Do you have somewhere to go?” Kate asked, following her gaze.
“It is nowhere I have to go,” Adelphia said curtly. “I am free to do nothing.”
“Then how about I buy you a cup of coffee? Alex told me that you like coffee.”
“It is my own cafe I can buy. I earn living. I no need charity.”
“I was just being friendly. Friends do that, you know. Like when Oliver helped you in the park when that man attacked you.”
Adelphia looked at her suspiciously. “How is all this you know?”
“Adelphia, you’re not the only one worried about Oliver. Alex is too. And I’m trying to help him while he’s out of town. Now, please come and have a cup of coffee with me. Please.”
“Why you help Agent Fort?” she asked suspiciously.
“Woman to woman? Because I care about him. Just like I know you care about Oliver.”
At these words Adelphia looked once more in the direction of Stone, started to sniffle a little, got in the car and allowed Kate to buy her coffee at a nearby Starbucks.
“So what is it that you do?” Adelphia said.
“I work for the Department of Justice.”
“So that is what you do? Make the justice?”
“I’d like to think so. At least I try.”
“In my country, for years — no, for decades — we have no justice. We have Soviets telling us what to do. Whether we can breathe air or not, they tell us. It is hell.”
“I’m sure it was awful.”
