‘Sorry, girls.’
They sank back into their seats, and his youngest daughter stuck out her tongue at the agent.
‘Ashley!’ his wife scolded.
‘I’m sorry,’ Ashley singsonged.
The agent managed a smile. ‘That’s OK. We’re a big bunch of spoilsports, right?’
‘Worse than Dad,’ said Ashley.
‘And that’s saying something, right?’ the President joked.
It was tough on the kids, though. He tried to keep to a minimum the number of official engagements they went to, but sometimes it was the only opportunity he had to see them.
He turned to the agent. ‘How long until we get there?’
‘About twelve minutes, sir.’
‘You know,’ said the President, addressing his two daughters, ‘if you’re real good, maybe there’ll be a surprise later.’
‘Ghirardelli?’ they both asked, wide-eyed.
The Ghirardelli soda fountain on North Point Street near Fisherman’s Wharf was a San Francisco institution, famous for its chocolate and ice-cream sundaes. You could gain twenty pounds just looking at one of them.
‘Depends if you’re good.’ He nudged the agent. ‘I might even get you one too, Mike.’
‘Not sure my wife would thank you, sir,’ said the agent.
The President winked. ‘Then don’t tell her.’
The First Lady rolled her eyes again but kept a smile on her face. It was part of their married shtick. He’d misbehave, she’d scold him.
‘So, what d’you say, kids? Sundaes?’
The two little girls bounced up and down on their seats with anticipation as The Beast rolled inexorably ahead, freeway rolling under its run-flats, two motorcycle outriders sweeping the First Family towards the cathedral.
65
The Secret Service had hustled Lock and Ty out on to the back steps of the cathedral, away from the assembled dignitaries. Over the crush, Lock spotted Coburn walking towards the cathedral. His head was down. He looked troubled.
Lock shouted out to him, but Coburn didn’t react.
‘Ask that guy,’ said Lock, pointing towards Coburn, as a burly Secret Service agent stepped in front of him. ‘He’s ATF. He can vouch for me.’
The Secret Service agents gathered round them didn’t move.
‘OK, I’ll ask him,’ said Lock, stepping around them.
‘The hell you will,’ said the burly agent. ‘You still haven’t explained how you came to have explosives residue on a deadly weapon you were carrying in here.’
Coburn was heading up the steps towards them. ‘Coburn!’ Lock shouted. ‘Coburn!’ He turned to one of the agents. ‘Just ask him, would you?’
Coburn pulled out his ATF badge and showed it to someone standing halfway down the stairs. The agent checked it and let him pass.
He was just feet away from Lock and Ty now.
‘Hey,’ said the burly agent, ‘you know these guys?’
Coburn stopped, looked straight at Lock and Ty, and smiled. ‘Never seen them before in my life,’ he said, then ducked past the group and into the body of the cathedral.
Lock and Ty exchanged a look of disbelief.
‘Hey, Coburn!’ Lock shouted. He went to push past the agent, which only signaled to the cops to move in to cuff him.
‘Get this guy the hell out of here before POTUS gets here.’
‘OK, OK,’ Lock said, giving up.
‘Him too,’ said the Secret Service agent, nodding at Ty.
‘What the hell did I do?’ Ty protested.
The second Secret Service agent hitched his thumbs into his belt. ‘We need you both out of here. If everything checks out, you’ll be released later in the day.’
‘Place your hands behind your back,’ said one of the cops to Lock.
‘Fine,’ Lock said, doing exactly as he was told.
‘You have any needles, any other sharp objects in your pocket?’ a female cop asked.
‘No.’
She came up with a comb in the right front pocket of his jeans and his wallet, which she left where they were. Once they were satisfied that they posed no threat, Lock and Ty were perp-walked down the steps of the cathedral.
Ty twisted his head round. ‘Hey, take it easy, I got a bad shoulder.’
His plea was met with a growled ‘And if you don’t keep moving it’s gonna get a lot worse.’
The crowd gathered at the crash barriers jeered as Lock walked down the stairs and across the sidewalk, propelled towards a patrol car parked directly across the street next to the park. He watched as Ty was given the same treatment, the only difference being that Ty wasn’t going quietly. He couldn’t make out the words but he guessed they weren’t pretty.
Lock’s head was forced down and he was placed into the back seat of the cruiser. He checked out the crowd once more: hard faces peering in his direction. The locks on the rear doors thunked shut, and then they were inching forward, away from the cathedral.
From his position on the back seat, he scanned the faces of those gathered at the front entrance but didn’t see Carrie. In a way, he was relieved. He’d go to the station, follow procedure like he’d been asked, and be out again in a couple of hours.
As they inched away from the kerb, he thought frantically about the explosive residue on the tip of his knife. Had it been near his SIG? That way it might have picked up a few specks of cordite. No, the closest the Gerber had been to either live rounds or his SIG was being in the same room. No way would that have been enough to leave a trace.
He glanced back at the cathedral through the cruiser window, across the freshly repaired patch of asphalt and up the steps.
Shit. The road. It had to be! He’d bent down and used the knife to dig a hole into the newly laid road surface.
‘Stop the car!’ he shouted, leaning forward.
The female cop riding up front bumped the brakes, the momentum propelling him forward so that he smacked his head against the hard Perspex divider which separated him from her, then accelerated again.
Unless he acted fast, his next stop was the station house, and the President’s next stop would be the morgue.
66
Chance sat astride a purloined Ducati and watched the San Francisco Police Department motorcycle outriders whip past her, along the Embarcadero, followed by half a dozen other vehicles in the presidential motorcade.
She clicked on her intercom headset, which was Bluetoothed to her cell phone. ‘They just went past.’
‘How fast they moving?’ Reaper asked.
‘They’re booking it. I’d say we’ve got under three minutes until we can RV.’
