Conspiracy

added that Mandarin had told him that he thought Forester had killed himself because “that’s where the evidence is,” but that the agency wasn’t going to close out the case any time soon.

“Prior to his death, Agent Forester made some inquiries by e-mail to a person in Vietnam. He wanted to talk to someone there, though it’s not clear why. We don’t know what he intended to ask or hoped to find out. We don’t even know for sure who it was he was trying to talk to. We have narrowed down the number of possibilities to three, all of whom both have a connection to the present government and were involved somehow in the war. That’s significant because Vietnam was believed to have been working on a program to assassinate American leaders three years ago.”

“And that,” said Ruben dryly, “is why you are here and we are involved.”

Jackson continued to fill in details, noting that McSweeney had served in Vietnam, which would make him an excellent candidate for a revenge plot. He also admitted that there was considerable room for skepticism. The NSA had a “robust” system in place for intercepting and monitoring Vietnamese communications, official and otherwise, and while these were being reviewed, no information had been gathered that revealed an assassination plot.

“Also, if Agent Forester thought that the threat originated from Vietnam, he would have communicated that to his superiors,” added Jackson. “And he did not.”

“Maybe he didn’t get the chance,” said Lia.

“Possibly.”

“What did McSweeney do in Vietnam?” Dean asked.

“He was a Marine officer,” said Jackson. “Toward the end of the war, he served as a commanding officer with the strategic hamlet program in Quang Nam Province, outside of Da Nang.”

“I know where it is,” said Dean.

It was the same area where he had served. He didn’t know McSweeney, though he had heard of the strategic hamlet program — a risky, typically Marine-type program that had troops live with the Vietnamese. It was a good idea or a loony idea depending on who was talking about it. They all agreed it hadn’t worked.

“How do you feel about Vietnam, Charlie?” asked Rubens.

Dean shrugged. “I don’t feel anything particularly.”

“Very well. Then I want you and Lia to go there and find Agent Forester’s contact and see if you can get him to shed light on his message.” He looked at his watch. “Spend the rest of the day familiarizing yourself with Agent Forester and his investigation. Be back and ready to leave this eve ning.”

17

The shooter had had a clear, easy shot from the fourth-floor window. He’d have been able to see the senator’s car arrive and had a good angle as he walked up toward the door. The shooter would have been able to see the decoy as well, assuming he had walked in the middle of the sidewalk.

Charlie Dean knelt at the window, studying the view.

Eighty-five yards, with traffic, people, distractions — it wasn’t surprising that the shooter had missed. Forget the fact that the rifle and ammunition were off-the-shelf: adrenaline would have been the shooter’s real enemy. How many people could even learn to control their breath under stress? It wasn’t

easy. The instructors told Charlie he had a knack for it, but he didn’t think it was easy.

And yet the setup seemed perfect. The shot was clear; there was no trace of a bullet, no trace of anyone in the room.

That argued that the shooter was, if not a professional, someone who took extreme care, who’d thought about the setup a great deal.

“What did he use to steady the gun?” Dean said, stepping back. “If he didn’t shoot from the window ledge, what did he use? Did he have a tripod? No way he took an offhand shot.”

“He puts something on the radiator there,” said Lia, pointing. “Takes it with him when he’s gone.”

“Nobody sees him.”

Dean went back to the window and stared down. Maybe the guy was a pro, but one out of practice, a man who hadn’t killed in a long time. Someone like himself, who knew the theory but had lost the steps, who got too excited when the moment came. Who’d missed — just as Dean had when the lion charged.

“Charlie Dean, Charlie Dean — what are you thinking?” Lia asked.

“I don’t know,” said Dean as he rose.

He scanned the block, looking for anything that might have distracted the shooter. Then Dean did the same thing in the room. It was a high-ceilinged, empty office; the linoleum on the floor was stained but swept clean, the walls bare except for shadows where photos had once hung.

“So?” asked Lia.

“Let’s go see what the Secret Service people have to say.”

18

“Let me put it this way,” Brian Wilson told Senator McSweeney as he began the slide show on his laptop. “If it weren’t for the possibility of collateral damage, I’d say you should get shot at every week. You’ve gained four to five points in the polls in every state. The metrics are definitely trending in your direction.”

Jimmy Fingers rolled his eyes. Though in his early thirties, Wilson looked as if he were still a college kid, and dressed the part. He constantly sprinkled terms like “metrics” and “coefficients” into his talk. Jimmy Fingers wasn’t so old-fashioned that he would ever allow a candidate to seek office without a pollster, even if he was only running for dog-catcher. Still, Jimmy resented the tendency to reduce everything to numbers, and thought they were way overvalued.

What did people think of McSweeney? That was what was important, after all. Did they think he was lucky to be alive? Or did they think he was special enough that the assassin’s bullet had missed because of fate or God’s hand?

The answer meant a world of difference. But of course Wilson didn’t even ask the question.

“There are a few days left to make an impression for Super Tuesday. With all the publicity about the assassination attempt, I’d like to shoot a spot emphasizing your war record,” suggested Brian Carouth, the campaign’s media con sul tant, after the pollster wrapped up. “I think it will play very well.”

“No. We don’t need to do that,” said McSweeney. “The spots we’re using have done just fine.”

“A little more biography—” suggested Carouth.

“Issues are what’s important,” said McSweeney. “My health plan, immigration, taxes. That’s what we pound.”

“Now, Senator, as we all know, people vote for the man, not the white paper,” said Wilson. He glanced at Jimmy Fingers, probably expecting him to help, but Jimmy said nothing. “And a war record is a big plus. It says a lot about a man’s character.”

“The Vietnam War is not the negative it once was,” added Carouth. “That’s ancient history.”

“There’s no need to bring up my military record,” said McSweeney. “We’ll leave it alone.”

Jimmy Fingers recognized from McSweeney’s tone that he would not change his mind on the matter, even as Wilson continued pushing the ads. It was refreshing to see the consul tant strike out so decisively, thought Jimmy Fingers.

Truth be told, Jimmy Fingers actually agreed with Wilson. But since when was truth an important ingredient in a political campaign?

19