at least fifty feet from ours.
There was an empty seat at that table, and I supposed it was for the admiral, who was nowhere in sight.
I glanced at Marisa to see if she was watching all this. She wasn’t. She was listening intently to Isolde, almost as if… as if she were her daughter.
That thought jolted me. Where had it come from? More important, where had it been?
My eyes kept searching for Grafton. I wondered if he had had that thought. Probably, I decided. He was always miles ahead of me, which is why he was the boss.
I glanced at the car dealer and saw that he was looking me over. “Got any openings for salesmen at your dealership?” I asked.
“Dealerships. We have four.”
“Always nice to meet a successful capitalist.”
“We can always use another good man. In car sales, the sky is the limit.” He tossed that off without thought, then he engaged the brain. “What does the color of your pass mean?”
“I’m a licensed killer.”
That comment jolted him. “You mean like Double-O Seven?”
“Oh, yeah. Me and James Bond. Same deal.”
Yocke chuckled and told the guy, “Tommy’s with the government. Housing, I think.”
“Bureaucrat,” I said. “I’m bored to tears. Been thinking about a job change.”
Abu Qasim couldn’t believe how many people were there, and how many security men and women, in and out of uniform. They weren’t running low profile, either. They stood beside the doors, manned the metal detector, and scrutinized driver’s licenses and invitations.
This was the hurdle that Qasim had worried about and planned for four years to get over. He had his hand in his pocket on his driver’s license, which was genuine. He concentrated on controlling his breathing. If he didn’t hyperventilate, he wouldn’t overperspire or look flushed, both of which would be signals for the security people. ‘
The man in front of Qasim couldn’t find his invitation. While he searched his pockets and his wife looked embarrassed, the officer beside him motioned to Qasim.
He stepped around and passed him the invitation and his driver’s license.
“Mr. Rothstein?”
“Yes.”
“What is your birthday, Mr. Rothstein?”
“July 8, 1958.”
After matching Qasim’s face to the photo on the license, the officer handed him back the invitation and license and motioned toward the metal detector.
Beside him, the man without the invitation was trying to talk his way in. “You people must have a list, and I know I’m on it. Why don’t you look?”
Qasim handed his cell phone, watch, keys and digital camera to the officer with a basket beside the detector and walked on through. Nothing beeped. The officer put his things under a fluoroscope, examined them, then handed them back to him.
He was in.
“Right this way, sir,” one of the ushers said and checked his invitation against a list. “Follow me, please.”
Everyone was seated and the ballroom doors were closed, only twenty minutes behind schedule, when the president and other party heavies came marching in to the strains of “Hail to the Chief” over the PA system, cutting off the banter. Spotlights came on, illuminating the president and official party. There were two television cameras mounted on platforms in the rear of the room, and the big spotlights hung from the ceiling. The rest of the room was well lit, however; the Secret Service had insisted upon it.
Jake Grafton was two people back from the Big Kahuna, all decked out in a tux, but he sort of hung back, a bit out of the way. We all got to our feet and applauded. The Petrous and the reporters and I applauded politely, but the car dealer and his wife really slammed hands. The dealer started to climb on his chair, then thought better of it. Someday this guy was going to be the deputy assistant secretary of something or other.
When everyone was finally seated and the popping flashbulbs slowed to something reasonable, the master of ceremonies welcomed us, then someone — I don’t know who — led us in the Pledge of Allegiance. I glanced around to see if anyone nearby was faking it. Apparently not. A prominent local preacher then offered up a prayer, pretty much a generic prayer, acceptable to all religions, inoffensive and tepid. When that was over, the designated senator started in on a fire-eating speech. This party and this president were good for the country, and deserved the support of every true American, and so on. You or I could have written it. Overwrought and theatrical, it was artificially passionate and uninspiring. Apparently no one cared.
“You taking notes?” I asked Yocke, who wasn’t. He ignored me.
Marisa had finally taken an interest in who else was in attendance. She was looking around, not ostentatiously, but looking. I found myself watching her.
When the senator finished, the master of ceremonies made a few more remarks and said, “Enjoy your dinner.”
That was the signal for an army of waiters to come marching out of the kitchen area bearing salads and wine bottles. They left a bottle of white and a bottle of red at each table. At our table the car dealer took it upon himself to do the pouring. Since I thought it possible I might need a wit or two at some point, I stuck with water. Marisa and Isolde took a glass of white. Isolde sipped and made a face. California wine, apparently.
I was watching the head table. I figured if I kept my eyes on the president, I would see whatever was coming. If anything. He was on his feet now, shaking hands up and down the head table. Two Secret Service types who looked as if they could place in a Mr. America contest stood immediately behind him. Grafton was beside them, his hands at his sides, scrutinizing faces in the crowd.
I wondered what the admiral was thinking. If the president got popped here tonight… Just the thought gave me goose bumps. I had read books and watched television shows about the Kennedy assassination from the time I was old enough to toddle; if the president went down tonight, Jake Grafton and I were going to be cussed, discussed and dissected by the press and conspiracy theorists until the coming of the next ice age. It was not a pleasant prospect.
When the president finished pumping hands at the head table, he went around the near end of the table into the crowd and began shaking hands and greeting people at each table. The spotlights stayed on him. The two Secret Service types and Jake Grafton accompanied him, just a little behind. Meanwhile the waiters were completing the salad and wine service and accumulating plates on side tables, preparing to serve them to the seated multitude.
I eyed those tables. Of course, no one knew who was getting which plate. Then I saw that the head table was being served directly out of the kitchen by guys and gals who looked suspiciously like Secret Service. They were leaving nothing to chance.
The president’s progress was slow. It seemed that he knew a lot of these folks, or pretended he did. He took his time at each table, and someone was always standing up to take a picture or two. Grip, smile sincerely, pose, say a few polite words, then do it all over again. Obviously this was going to take a while.
He was finished with the first row and starting on the second when the waiters began serving the main course. He was going to shake hands all through dinner. I guess he didn’t like Chicken Cordon Bleu any more than I did.
I slurped water and watched the crowd and the president, trying to take it all in.
Soon, Qasim thought, and tried to concentrate on what the lady on his left was saying. Something about her daughter who was attending Smith College. “These young ladies at Smith … they talk about a ‘third sex,’ and wear tails sticking out of their clothes, date each other and just do what all. Of course, my daughter would never do such nonsense.”
Qasim didn’t know what to say. He glanced at the president, who was shaking hands twenty-five feet away.
He was rescued by the woman on his right, who leaned around and spoke to the Smith mother. “They didn’t
