Those who took the time to look up from their streetside vantage points could pick out the dark-clothed figures of sharpshooters along the rooftops, crack riflemen with scopes who could pinpoint and blast away any would-be assassins in seconds.
Others crowded north on University to the point where school bandsmen clattered drums and blew horns in the musical cacophony of warm-ups that signaled the parade was about ready to begin. It would march down University, turn left onto Queen Street West, pass the reviewing stand and disband on the other side of Yonge Street.
Police barricades blocked off the cross streets, and arm-waving officers detoured motorists away from the parade route. They had Yonge north of Queen blocked at Shuter Street, which came to a dead end opposite the middle of the long expanse of the Eaton Centre. Victoria Street lay two blocks east. In contrast to the gleaming facades of the nearby skyscrapers, this was a more shabby section, lined with low buildings that housed small businesses catering to students from Ryerson Polytechnic Institute, located just to the north. In addition to the pool halls, the dry cleaners and book shops, there were rows of aging brick walkup apartments.
On the TV platform, Naji Abdalla swung his camera around frequently, as he had been taught to do, although the picture in its viewfinder was going nowhere after reaching a small microwave dish mounted nearby for appearance sake only. The tiny microphone in front of his lips was live, however, and through the earpieces he could hear Overmyer and Richter talking from the truck on Victoria Street. They had begun setting up the equipment early, and they now reported everything in readiness. The mortar had been mounted and aimed, the overhead hatch opened. The surveillance cameras were operating. Every pedestrian headed their way and every vehicle that moved along the street would show on the monitors. A curtain had been drawn across the opening to the cab so that no one from outside could see what was going on in the compartment. Abdalla knew the two men would be sitting anxiously in their chairs, awaiting his signal from Nathan Phillips Square.
The mood in the rental car driven by Andrei Golanov was as festive as that of the throngs in the nearby streets. He chatted amiably with Katerina Makarenko as they drove toward Victoria Street.
"I can already hear the mournful music playing on Moscow radio and television, Katya."
She smiled broadly. "I trust General Kostikov will enjoy the music."
"Yes, he should be contacting the Ministry of Defense soon about joining our cause."
"There shouldn't be any problem once the news gets out that the Americans and Israelis are behind all this," Katya said.
"True."
There was one small change in the plan from what he had reported at the meeting in Niagara Falls the previous night. Hans Richter had been chosen for the Jabberwock team because of his past trusted service as a KGB agent in the East German secret police establishment. As soon as the weapon was fired, Richter would eliminate Gary Overmyer with a lethal blow designed to appear accidental. He would step out of the truck and into the car driven by Golanov. Then an anonymous tip to the Mounties would put them on the trail of a link between the assassination, the Mossad, the CIA, and two prominent American capitalists.
A disturbing thought suddenly erased the smile from Katya's pretty face. "But what about this Burke Hill?" she asked. "What if he gets away again?"
Golanov shook his head. "Not this time. I was told just before we left the hotel that he and his girlfriend are trapped in a wooded area back of the Newman house. They were caught in a thunderstorm. Our people are bringing in the dogs. They probably have them in custody by now."
As they approached Victoria Street shortly before time for the parade to begin, Golanov slowed at the sight of a squad of Metro police setting up a barrier to close off Victoria at Shuter. Although he could not see it, the same thing was taking place at Dundas, to the north at the other end of the block. Other officers were moving quickly to evacuate apartment dwellers and customers of the businesses along Victoria through rear exits.
"I don't like the looks of this," Golanov said with a darkening frown.
He pulled up near the barrier and motioned to one of the officers. When the policeman walked over, Golanov showed his credentials as a member of the official Soviet delegation.
"What's the problem, officer?"
"I'm not sure, Colonel. We were told there may be a bomb in this block, to keep everybody out. It's far enough away, it shouldn't affect the parade."
Golanov forced a grin. "That's good."
Then he swung the car around, cursing their failure to provide him with a radio to make contact with the truck. He could only hope that Richter and Overmyer would spot the activity on their TV screens and open fire immediately. It would present a problem making the pickup of Hans, but he was a resourceful fellow.
The two Mounties, Macleod struggling with one hand, strapped Burke into a nylon sling and hooked it to the steel cable that ran from a power winch. When the pilot turned his head and pointed a finger downward, they looked out at the city below. The chopper was cruising along slowly at about six hundred feet altitude.
"There's Victoria Street," Macleod shouted, pointing off to one side.
Burke shifted his eyes along the strip of asphalt. Then he saw it. A white truck with a satellite dish at the rear. "That's it," he yelled. "Right there. In front of that low building. See the small, dark circle on top? That's the open hatch."
Macleod shouted to the pilot. "Take her down."
As they began to descend, Macleod strapped his belt with the grenades around Burke's waist, then double-checked the hook connected to the sling. "Ever done anything like this before?" he asked.
Burke shook his head and grinned. "I've done a lot of hanging out in my time, but never from a helicopter."
"There's not much wind. You shouldn't get too wide a swing. We'll drop you down about nine meters on the cable. Then maneuver you as close to the hatch as possible."
"Will you be able to see me toss the grenade?" Burke asked.
"Sure. I'll be hanging out the door." He hooked a nylon strap around his waist that would keep him from falling out. "As soon as you turn loose of the grenade, I'll signal the pilot. Good hunting."
The Mountie pulled open the door and latched it. "Get ready."
Lori reached over to squeeze Burke's hand and give him a game smile. He saw that she was biting her lower lip.
The chopper was in a descending hover, slowly closing on the ground. At about a hundred and fifty feet, Macleod patted Burke on the back. He swung over the edge of the opening and dropped free.
Burke felt the downwash of the rotor as the cable reeled out. It buffeted his face, tossed his hair like a stiff wind on a stormy day. And then time seemed to hit a warp. The cable played out in slow motion, stopping when it had extended about thirty feet.
But he kept dropping as the chopper closed in on the truck.
He had become a free falling object with no control. The takeoff in Kevin McKenzie's Cessna back in New Orleans was a nursery ride compared to this. He thought briefly that it was close to how a fledgling paratrooper would feel on his first jump. He was well aware of the potential consequences, but an adrenalin high blocked the danger from his mind.
Burke swung like a pendulum as he watched the truck grow larger beneath him. He recalled the padded earphones Overmyer and Richter should be wearing, how they should mask the sound of the chopper. He knew that by the time he was in place, the downwash would pummel the truck enough to signal those inside that something was amiss. He could only pray that it would not happen too soon.