needless public panic,” says Joselyn. “At least that was the argument.”
“Yeah, and would probably raise a lot of questions about how the administration screwed up,” I tell her. “Wait a second. Wasn’t that the committee Snyder’s kid…?”
“Yes. I thought about that when I read the news reports on the murder,” says Joselyn. “Jimmie Snyder worked for Root’s committee, but it didn’t have anything to do with his death.”
“How do you know?”
“He was on staff, but he was new. He’d only been there a short time. I’m sure he didn’t have any security clearance, so he wouldn’t have had access to any significant information. He was a gofer. Besides, he wasn’t working there at the time he met Thorn, when those security photographs were taken.”
“How do you know that?” I say.
“His father told me. He and I talked after you left the office that day. The day I got sick.”
“So where were the photos taken?” I ask.
“I asked him that,” says Joselyn. “He told me he’d rather not say. He said Jimmie had made a mistake and paid with his life.”
“Violated security protocols, as I recall.”
“Yes, by showing Thorn something he wasn’t supposed to see,” says Joselyn. “Snyder made it clear that unless discussing the details would lead him to Thorn, he didn’t want to talk about it.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Sheltering his son’s reputation, I suppose. Even in death.”
“Where are the pictures Snyder gave us?”
“They are in my briefcase,” says Joselyn. “Why?”
“Why don’t you get them?”
“Sure.” She walks over to the other side of the room, looks in her briefcase, and pulls out a manila folder. She opens it and takes out the photos.
We spread them out on the bed. Joselyn lays down on her stomach. I sit. We look at all three photographs for the umpteenth time, two of them showing Thorn and Jimmie Snyder together, the third one, the enlargement of Thorn by himself.
The images are almost ghostlike because of the stark white walls behind them. They look like film frames from one of those movies in which some mortal character plays God in some whitewashed ethereal corporate office that represents heaven. There is nothing on the walls except the one sign partially obscured behind Thorn’s shoulder.
“What’s this? It’s been bugging me since the first day we saw the photographs, just before lunch at the Brigantine.” I point to the sign over Thorn’s shoulder, the words “basketball and weightlifting” clearly visible.
“It looks like a gymnasium,” says Joselyn.
“It has to be here in this city someplace. Are you sure you don’t recognize it? You’re the Washington insider,” I say.
She shakes her head. “No. I’ve never seen it before. It doesn’t ring any bells.” She tries to read the line below it, the last few words of which are visible over Thorn’s shoulder but lost in the glare of light. “It looks as if there’s some kind of a plastic sheet or cover over the sign,” she says. “The rest of the sign is blocked by part of Thorn’s head and body. Give me a minute.” Joselyn rolls over, sits up, and again walks to where her briefcase is. When she returns, she has a small plastic case about an inch and a half square and half an inch thick in her hand. She pulls on it and a small magnifying glass slides out. She reaches across the bed and picks up the photograph with the sign in the background. She holds the magnifying lens close to the photo and examines the image as if it were a fine piece of jewelry. “Oh, my God! What day is it?”
“Monday. Why?”
“The first Monday in October, right?”
“Yeah.”
“The sign. It’s the highest court in the land,” says Joselyn.
“What?”
“We don’t have time to talk,” she says. “Come on.” She grabs me by the arm and pulls me toward the door.
FORTY-EIGHT
He sat in the small, dark room watching a tiny television set, the breaking news of the unfolding events over the subway in New York.
“Information is sketchy at this time but it appears that something has happened at a construction site out near the Battery on the tip of Manhattan. There are reports of a shooting between transit police and an unidentified suspect involving some kind of large vehicle, a heavy truck of some kind, and that the area around this construction zone has been cordoned off by police.
“Jim, as you can see, I am near the site. But police have now moved us back three blocks from where this is happening, so our camera really can’t see anything. And now I’m getting word that our helicopter, which was en route, will not be able to get a visual of the location because authorities have cleared the airspace above the site, for what reason we’re not sure.
“In addition, subway service into and out of the area has been shut down, and police and emergency services workers are moving as quickly as possible to get people out of the subway. According to the subway system, they have closed all stations from midtown down to the Battery.”
“Mike, can you tell us, are you able to see any portion of the construction site from where you are right now?”
“Jim, actually I’m not.”
“Mike, we’re being told that according to the authorities it’s the site of the new Fulton Street transit station.”
“That would be about right, but as I say, they’ve pushed us back so far that we really can’t see anything. Excuse me…just a moment.”
The Old Weatherman watched as the reporter on the screen pressed his finger to his ear and listened as one of his producers told him what was happening.
“We now have a report that the vehicle in question is a large cement truck and that the driver of that vehicle exchanged gunfire with police at the site. According to the information, the driver and a third party were shot, and police sources are now confirming that the driver is dead. As to the identity and condition of the other shooting victim, at this time we have no information.
“And there is more. According to one source, a bomb squad has been dispatched to the scene. For what reason we don’t know. But coupled with the fact that the authorities are now evacuating the subway, it doesn’t look good. Over to you, Jim.”
“Thanks, Mike. We’ll be back to you momentarily. As soon as there’s any more information.”
The Old Weatherman reached over and turned off the set. The only thing he needed to know was the fact that the driver was dead. The FBI and local law enforcement would waste the next several hours tinkering with the truck before they extracted the detonator.
They probably wouldn’t find out at least for a day or so, until after it was carefully examined, that the detonator itself was defective. The bomb was in fact inert. Its sole purpose was to draw the attention of the FBI away from what was happening in Washington.
The last thing the Old Weatherman wanted to do was kill thousands of people in a perfectly senseless act of mayhem. He was not a terrorist, no matter what others might think. He had suffered through years of regret for the one senseless act of violence in his youth, the bombing of the bank that had accidentally cost a human life. It had twisted his psyche in ways that he still did not fully comprehend. It was the reason he’d sent Root to warn his old friend Nicholas Merle that it was time to retire, to give up his seat on the Supreme Court. He wanted him out of the way before the man lost his life. But Merle wouldn’t listen. The Old Weatherman tried to shake off the thought.
Where was he? He couldn’t remember where his mind had left off. It was the detonator. That was it. The
