at first. That’s why he won’t kill us, at least not right away.”
“It’s risky,” said Thorne, stroking her hair. “But you’re right.
Besides, you know me. If I have to die, I might as well go out in a blaze.”
“Then it’s agreed. We’ll shake’em up, then burn’em down.”
“What about the judge?” Thorne asked. “We still have to baby-sit.
What if they think she’s involved?”
“It’s already too late. They know we’re watching over her, if not, they will soon, and they’ll keep an eye on her just to be safe.”
“Do you think we should tell her?”
Robert looked over at the trophy case and the pile of broken glass.
“Not at the moment,” he said. “I’ll tell her when I think the time is right.
We’ll be taking a big chance when we do.”
“It can’t be any bigger than it is now,” said Thorne.
“She’s a member of the bar, a judge,” said Robert. “We’d be providing her with knowledge of a crime. The assassination of President Kennedy no less. She might feel compelled to tell what she knows.”
“Well, maybe she’ll be more compelled to keep breathing,” Thorne answered, peering out of the window at the agents checking the grounds.
“I’ll handle that phase,” said Robert.
“Well then, let’s hop to it,” Thorne said, full of confidence.
Robert looked at Thorne and remembered the battles they’d fought together. Bullies, war, even the deaths of parents.
Thorne stared back. “Don’t worry partner,” she said, with the conviction of a fighter pilot. “I wasn’t with it at first, but now I am. I want it as much as you do. We’ll win, or take every last one of them with us.”
They clasped hands, feeding off each other’s energy. They let go and Robert looked toward the den. “I have to get her ready for tonight.
Make sure her mind is settled.”
“Go to it big boy, I’ll check on our friends outside. Where’s my room in this place?”
“Upstairs, the second to the right, next to Jessica’s.” Thorne slapped his shoulder, cut through the kitchen, grabbing several sandwiches from a platter, and hit the back door. Robert heard her bark orders as she chewed. The agent’s dogs barked back anxiously, as though they understood.
Robert, hesitant, went to the den, stopping at the door to collect his thoughts. He understood Fiona’s frustration. She and Jessica were being forced to live like caged animals. She asked him to leave, but that was the stress talking. It didn’t matter anyway. He wasn’t going anywhere.
If something happened to Fiona or her daughter, he’d never live it down.
His mother had a long memory.
He knocked on the door. No answer. He let himself inside. Fiona lay stretched out on a big green sofa, fitful and restless. She turned toward him, eyes red and swollen.
“I’ll be so glad when it’s over,” she said, fighting the sobs.
Robert knelt at her side and used his hands to untangle her disheveled, golden locks. “It’s going to be okay,” he said softly. “I’m sorry if I seemed insensitive, that wasn’t my intention. We’ll go to the reception tonight and deal with it. You concentrate on dazzling the President and the crowd. I’ll worry about everything else. We can discuss the rest tomorrow.”
Fiona sat up and wiped her eyes. “You must think I’m a wimp,” she said. “Not exactly as tough as my billing.”
“Not at all. Anyone would have a hard time in this situation, and none of us are as good as our press.”
“Except you.”
Robert cracked a smile. “Even I have my moments.” He fixed on her ocean blues, drawn by her vulnerable charm.
“I really appreciate everything you’re doing for us,” she said.
Before he could respond, she leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you.”
Her eyes and lips invited him to kiss her. His body flinched forward.
He pulled back.
“I better help Thorne check the grounds,” he said, standing.
“Yes,” said Fiona. “And I better get ready for tonight.” He helped her up and headed for the door.
“Robert,” she called.
He turned, wanting to go back. To hold her tight and kiss her hard.
“Again, thank you.”
He smiled and left the room.
17
Andre lingered in the woods behind a plain two-story house, and waited.
He checked his watch. Four o’clock. He’ll be here soon. He opened the briefcase leaning against his leg. Two hundred thousand dollars in crisp counterfeit bills stared back. He closed the case and lit a cigarette.
Two Winstons later, a black Ford Crown Victoria parked in the driveway, and the driver ran inside. Andre put the third smoke back in the pack, checked the area for nosey neighbors, and quickly strode to the back door. Two knocks and the door snatched open. “You’re late comrade.”
“It couldn’t be helped. Come inside.”
Inside, the house looked less impressive than outside.
“You should move up in the world comrade. You’ve certainly earned enough.”
“In due time. Extravagance draws attention I don’t need.” Andre understood, and admired the host’s restraint. “Here’s the money.” He tossed the briefcase and made himself a drink. “Count it if you like.”
“No need. I trust you,” his host said. “And here’s the information you requested.”
He handed Andre a thick folder. The Russian tucked it under his arm and drained his glass.
“Aren’t you going to check it?”
“I trust you too comrade,” said Andre, smiling. “Without trust, what do we have?” They laughed. He hugged his host and left. Back in the woods, he lit another Winston, and hummed a Russian tune.
18
Reporters, onlookers, and the naturally nosy, all vying for pictures, autographs and stories, packed the lobby, waiting areas, and lounges of the Ritz Carlton Hotel. The capitol city’s powerful and elite, polished up in after-five attire, waltzed about shaking hands and talking to the press.
Robert and Thorne blended in nicely, an attractive couple, striking and exquisite. He in a midnight black Hugo Boss tuxedo, a Christmas gift from his mother, and a sleek black and gold Versace draped Thorne’s statuesque frame like a runway model. They glided through the impressive crowd on opposite sides of the lobby, subtly looking for anything suspicious or out of place.
Robert hated large crowds. Unpredictable, any crazed, motivated fool could slip through unnoticed, despite the tightest security. Often, the problem saw you before you identified them. Robert remembered a peace rally in Israel they both were assigned to, where Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin, surrounded by some of the world’s preeminent security agents, was gunned down by Yigal Amir, a young right-wing extremist yielding a 9mm Beretta. Thorne, alone on assignment in Mexico, watched presidential nominee, Luis Colosio meet the same fate in Tijuana at a political rally in 94, by a motivated maniac who managed to work his way up-close in a crowd.
Robert spotted Secret Service agents scattered liberally throughout the Ritz, visibly scanning the crowd. Well-attired undercover agents, coupled up in man/woman teams, mingled inconspicuously with the reception
