glasses off, placing them in a large, green trash bag. Next came the jacket, camera, and small toolbox.
Then he quickly took off the boots, followed by his pants and underwear.
He was naked from the waist down and put on the running tights and sweatpants.
Taking off the flannel shirt, he replaced it with the dark sweatshirt, put on the worn running shoes, and checked to make sure everything was in the trash bag, including the backpack. Backing out of the spot, he drove through the lot and pulled back onto
Wisconsin Avenue. The trash bag could have been thrown away in one of the grocery store’s Dumpsters, but the homeless people would find it, and homeless people talked to cops. The assassin had a small office building picked out about two miles away where the garbage was picked up on Friday mornings. Almost five minutes later, he pulled into the alley behind the small, brick building and stopped. Jumping out, he lifted the lid of the
Dumpster, shifted several bags to the side, and placed his bag inside, covering it up with the others. He gently let the lid of the Dumpster close, not wanting to make any loud noises, and got back in the car.
Within seconds he was back on Wisconsin and headed south. Several minutes later, he was winding through the small neighborhood of Potomac Palisades. When he reached the corner of Potomac Avenue and Manning Place Lane, he parked the car and got out, closing the door gently behind him. The temperature had dropped to around forty degrees, and a slight breeze was rustling the dry, fall leaves. The forecast called for fog in the morning, but there was no sign of it where he was, high on the bluffs above the
Potomac. On the other side of the street was a small boulevard of grass and then thick woods that led down a steep hill to the Potomac Parkway and then just beyond that to
Palisades Park and the Potomac River. He crossed the street and entered the tree line.
Finding a small footpath that he had used before, he zigzagged his way down the steep, forested hillside. Stopping just short of the road, he checked for the headlights of any approaching cars, then darted across the two- lane highway and down into a small ravine. Settling in behind a large tree and some bushes, he looked up at the underside of the Chain Bridge, which ran from D.C. into Virginia. The lights from the bridge cast a faint yellow glow that reached the tops of the trees above him and then faded before hitting the forested floor. Palisades Park was not your typical metropolitan park. There
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were no softball diamonds or football fields. It was heavily wooded with a few jogging trails and some large patches of marshland. The assassin pressed the light button on his digital watch and checked the time. It was nearing 2 A.M. and his accomplices would be arriving shortly. Looking in the direction of the river, he could see a thin layer of fog spreading out across the floor of the forest. The noise of car tires on gravel caught his attention, and he looked up over the edge of the ravine. A blue-and-white Washington
Post newspaper van came to a stop, and a man dressed in blue coveralls quickly got out of the passenger side and slid open the door of the cargo area. Reaching inside, he grabbed two large, black duffel bags and ran to the tree line, setting the bags down about fifteen feet from where the blond-haired assassin was waiting. The man let out three curt whistles and waited for a confirmation. The assassin did the same, and the man walked away and climbed back in the van. Picking up the two large bags, the assassin placed the shoulder straps around his neck and let the bags rest on his hips. Next, he threaded through the woods and crossed under the Chain Bridge. The Potomac River was not navigable by anything other than a canoe or a raft at this point, and the river only ran under the far western end of the bridge. As the assassin worked his way toward the river, the trees became smaller and more sparse. By the time he reached the middle of the bridge, the fog was up to his waist.
Turning south, he walked about thirty yards and found a small clearing.
He set both bags down and opened the one on his right. The fog and darkness made his task more difficult, but he was used to working under strange conditions. Inside one of the bags was a small, gray radar dish mounted on a square, metal box, a car battery, some power cables and camouflage netting. The assassin hooked the car battery up to the radar unit and tested the power. When he was satisfied, he covered it with the camouflage netting and opened the second bag, pulling out a wooden board about three feet long.
Attached to the flat side of the board in an upright position were six plastic tubes about an inch in diameter and twenty-four inches long. Each tube was painted dull green and was loaded with a phosphorus flare. He pulled some small bushes out of the ground and placed them around the tubes so the open ends were pointed straight up into the sky. To the base of the makeshift launcher, he attached a nine-volt battery, and a small transponder.
The assassin checked everything over, making sure the transponders were operating properly, then grabbed the empty bags and started to weave his way back toward the eastern end of the bridge.
The MORNING SUN RISING ABOVE THE EASTERN horizon WAS INVISIBLE
because of the thick fog that blanketed the nation’s capital. Although the streets were quiet, there were signs that the morning rush of’ people heading to work was near. The blue-and-white Washington Post newspaper van pulled up to the corner of Maryland and
Massachusetts at the east end of Stanton Park. Both men got out of the van. The driver opened the back doors, and his partner walked over to the Washington Post newspaper box that was chained to the streetlight.
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He got down on one knee and picked the padlock. A moment later it sprang open, and the chain dropped to the ground. He grabbed the box and carried it to the back of the van.
While he loaded it, his partner took an identical box and placed it where the other one had been. He checked several times to make sure the door wouldn’t open. After being satisfied, he pulled a remote control out of his pocket and punched in several numbers. A
red light at the top told him the small radar unit placed inside the empty box was receiving the signal. He nodded to his partner and they got back in the van. They were thankful for the cover that the fog provided, but were getting anxious. They would have liked to have started this part of the operation earlier but were forced to wait until the real
Washington Post vans had delivered Friday morning’s edition. With one more drop left, they drove around the south end of Stanton Park and turned onto Maryland Avenue. A
block later, they turned onto Constitution Avenue and headed west. As they neared the
White House, both men could feel their hearts start to beat a little faster.
