many unpredictable factors. His preferred
He was soberly dressed in a dark gray, business suit with a fine pink stripe outlining the lapels and cuffs. Similarly conservative was the soft black vinyl hat, which he wore to hide his spiky blond crew cut. Nothing he could do to disguise his six feet four or his 210-pound frame or his fifty-four-inch chest; but there were plenty of big men around and he didn't feel conspicuous. Anyway, nobody ever remembered faces at airports and his would be one among thousands.
He carried two items of hand luggage: a slim flat black attache case and a matching camera case slung around his neck. The attache case contained what he termed his 'close' methods. Hypodermic. Capsules. Cigarettes.
If he could get close to his victim, say next to him in a line of people or behind him on an escalator, the hypo shot was easily delivered through the fake index finger of the black glove, his own hand clenched inside working the plunger.
The tiny beadlike capsules dissolved instantly in hot or cold liquids, so again this depended on whether he could get near enough to slip one into the victim's drink.
The cigarettes, a popular low-tar brand, were a favorite method because the victim could smoke one all the way down without suspecting a thing and ten minutes later would be stone-cold dead of an embolism --by which time Sturges would be clear of the vicinity and going blamelessly about his'business.
Concealed in the camera case a gas-powered ejector dart, effective at up to twenty-five feet, could penetrate the thickest clothing and kill in under two minutes. He'd used it twice before and it was absolutely dependable. No need even to pretend to be taking a photograph: There were two viewing and aiming positions, one from above, which meant he could be fiddling with the camera, pretending to adjust it, and line up his victim through the target viewfinder.
Two vital elements remained unresolved: location and recognition. Sturges had to find his man and know for certain it was Chase. Having seen him once before, in Geneva eight years ago, was a bonus; most times he had to work from photographs. And according to Madden, Chase had altered very little--a slight thickening of the waist perhaps, but still the straight black sweep of hair across his forehead, the thick dark eyebrows.
A moving walkway took him around the rim of a large transparent dome and through a maze of plastic tunnels. Below him the main concourse was thronged with people, among them the usual drug cases, mugging trios, and beggars. No one carried hand luggage or a shoulder bag that wasn't chained to his person. Sturges didn't trouble because his size was an adequate deterrent.
As he stepped off into the transit lounge he checked out the suspended circular display that flashed up the arrivals and departures.
FLIGHT D--04 9 : LONDON : 1915
It was listed on schedule. Sturges allowed himself a fleeting smile, and a glint of gold shone faintly in the broad heavy features. His preparation and timing were perfect. He had two full hours. As he'd assured Gelstrom, plenty of time.
He strolled past the rows of crowded seats, just another passenger waiting for his flight, eyes flicking left and right, comparing each male face with the picture in his head. Down the left-hand aisle past the rest rooms and back up the center aisle. A number of men with black hair, about the right age, mid-thirties, but none fitted the picture. Down the right-hand aisle this time, eyes never still, returning up the center aisle again.
Sturges paused at his starting point. It had taken him less than ten minutes to check out the transit lounge and he had not seen his man.
Okay--shops, newsstand, restaurant, coffee shop. He walked around the perimeter of the lounge, spending a few moments to glance into each of the little shops and booths selling perfume, souvenirs, leather goods, flowers. This took seven minutes and still nothing.
At the glass door to the coffee shop he peeked in and then moved closer to the tiled wall. From here he had a clear view through the window except for those tables next to the near wall. There was a man with black hair in one of the rear booths, his back to the door so that Sturges couldn't see his face. The man wore glasses and was reading what looked from here to be a typed report. Did Chase wear glasses? Madden hadn't said so, though maybe he did for reading.
Sturges watched him steadily for two minutes and then went in. He moved past the counter and chose a table near the front, facing away from the man in the booth. The coffee shop was busy, too busy, people coming and going all the time. He didn't like the setup.
Placing the attache case under the table he picked up the plastic menu card and was in the act of taking a casual look over his right shoulder when the waitress came along and stood, one hip thrust out, and asked for his order. Sturges told her coffee, black, and went back to studying the menu.
Again he looked around, affecting that vacant scrutiny that people have in public places, and this time got a good look at the man. He turned back and slid the menu between the relish and the ketchup. Fucking Japanese.
Where the hell was he?
Sturges breathed out slowly and looked at his gold Rolex. Nineteen minutes gone and he hadn't located his man. Had Chase altered his plans? Decided to stay overnight in Manhattan? Clearly he wasn't--
'Keep the change,' he heard someone say through the hubbub, and the English accent shrieked in his head like a fire alarm. The man was at the cash register tucking a wallet into his inside pocket. He must have been at one of the tables next to the wall. Black sweeping hair over his eyes. Right age. And what's more, Sturges remembered him.
Chase stood aside to let someone enter and went out.
Sturges stood up and held out a dollar bill to the waitress bringing his coffee and pushed past her, camera swinging against his chest, attache case in his dark hairy fist, and reached the glass door before it had swung shut on its chrome-plated hinges.
Getting to see the president at such short notice wasn't easy, as Lucas had known all along.
At first he'd tried the proper channels, following protocol, and been told it would take three weeks minimum. When he insisted that it was a matter of extreme urgency he was asked to submit the reason for requesting a personal interview in writing, which was of course out of the question.
In the end he had pleaded, cajoled, and finally persuaded two senior White House officials and the president's appointments secretary that it was imperative he speak to the president at once, if only for ten minutes.
'Is that all?' one of the officials remarked dryly over the phone. 'Think yourself damn lucky if you get five!'
He was granted an appointment sandwiched between a delegation from the Free Palestinian Trades Council and an awards ceremony in honor of an army ordnance team that had defused a one-thousand-pound bomb at Grand Central Station. Instead of being shown to the Oval Office, however, as he'd expected, Lucas was stationed between an aide and a secret service agent on the steps leading down to the lawn at the rear of the White House.
Then came another surprise--or rather, shock. He was crisply informed that he had however long it would take the president to walk from the steps to the welcoming committee of military brass in the middle of the lawn to state his case. Dumbfounded, Lucas gazed with sick dismay at the short stretch of trimmed grass. He reckoned he had about a minute; perhaps a few seconds more if the president slowed to a dawdle.
One minute in which to explain the technical complexities, the scientific fallacies, and the ecological implications of DEPARTMENT STORE.
One minute to warn of global catastrophe.
Trying to get his thoughts in order, and already sweating at the prospect, Lucas was totally unprepared for what happened--which happened so fast he didn't know it was happening. The tap and scrape of shoe leather on marble, a pack of people bearing down on him, and he was grasped firmly by the elbows and all five feet four of him lifted off his feet and thrust forward, before he knew it walking--trotting-- alongside the president, completely surrounded by large hulking men wearing sunglasses and blocking out the light. He was in a forest of bodies.
'Gene, good to see you. How's everything?'
