THE SPEAKER of the House was wakened by his wife at 6:30 a.m., and not gently.
“Eft,” she said, “you’d better get your ass out of that bed right now, or you’re going to miss the meeting of the leadership.”
“Mmmmf,” Efton replied, turning over and staring at the ceiling. “I think I have a hangover.”
“And you’re surprised? You drank at least half a bottle of Scotch last night. We’re going to have to get you into a program.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, girl, leave me alone. It’s not as though I drink that much every night. It was a party!” He rolled out of bed and staggered toward the bathroom. “Make me some bacon and eggs, will you?”
“You don’t need all that grease in your stomach. What you need is bran cereal, and that’s what you’ll get.”
The shower muted the sounds of Efton’s swearing.
TED PARKED nearly two blocks down the Georgetown street from the speaker’s house and watched. He could see the front door clearly, but nobody was taking any note of him. He could see the exhaust fumes of the two Suburbans idling outside the house. What he needed most to know was in which car Efton would be riding.
EFTON FINISHED his bran cereal and resisted the urge to puke it up on the breakfast table. He was shaved, showered, and dressed, and only someone who could look closely into his eyes would have seen the hangover lurking there. He quickly scanned the front pages of the Post and both the New York and Washington Times for mention of his name, and when he didn’t find it, became quickly bored.
“Eft, please get going!” his wife begged. She didn’t want to be blamed later if he was late to his meeting.
Efton gathered up the newspapers for reading in the car, got his coat and briefcase from the hall closet, and left the house.
Ted watched as Efton emerged, looked up and down the street, then ran down his front steps and got into the second Suburban. No way to tell how many agents there were in each car, but probably two, one driving and one riding shotgun, while Efton had the rear seat to himself. As the two Suburbans left the curb, he pulled out and followed them, staying two blocks behind. They made a right turn, and from that, Ted guessed that they would be taking route number one, the most direct. Efton was probably running late.
The two trucks turned left onto Pennsylvania Avenue and proceeded toward the Capitol. Ted was caught at a light and waited impatiently for it to change. Once it did, the massive acceleration at his disposal quickly caught him up. Now he moved into the right lane and closed the distance between his car and the two Suburbans. A block ahead, he saw a traffic light turn to red. There was nothing between his car and the light, so he could stop next to the trucks. His windows were blackened, like those of the Suburbans, so they could see him no better than he could see them. Ted stopped next to the Suburbans, carefully choosing his position between the two trucks. He had only until the light changed. He picked up the weapon and worked the action, chambering the first round; he checked the cross-street traffic, then he pressed the down switch on his window. From his position a little ahead of the second Suburban, he could see through the windshield into the car, could see both the driver and Efton. There was only one agent in the car. He fired the first round before his window was fully down, killing the driver, then he turned the weapon toward Efton and began emptying the magazine, first at the man, then at the front passenger seat as Efton ducked behind it.
The front passenger door of the first Suburban suddenly opened, and an agent came out, drawing his weapon. Ted floored the Mercedes, striking the agent and taking off the Suburban’s door, then he hung a sharp right, drove across two lanes of traffic, and headed down the street. He knew the driver of the first Suburban would have to check on the state of the second truck before pursuing, so he would have a good head start.
He whipped the car down an alleyway, drove a block, then turned left on Pennsylvania, headed back the way he had come. Now he slowed his progress, so as not to attract attention. The garage where he had parked the RV was in sight now, down the street a couple of blocks on his left. He pulled into a parking lot on his right, took a ticket from the machine, and found a spot. He took off the jumpsuit, the beard and the wig, put on a baseball cap and packed the weapon and the wig into a canvas bag; he got out of the car, locked it, and began walking down the street toward the garage where he had left the RV. Halfway there, he tossed the Mercedes’s keys into a trash can.
KINNEY HAD BEEN in his office for an hour when the first news came in; typically, it was from CNN.
“There has been a shooting incident in downtown Washington, D.C.,” the announcer said. “A black GMC Surburban with D.C. license plates was fired into several times from another car, and a second Suburban lost a door in the incident. We expect to have further details momentarily, but these vehicles are typical of those used by the government to transport VIPs around the city.” Kinney pressed the intercom. “Get me the chief of police.” A moment later he was buzzed; he picked up the phone. “Good morning, Chief,” he said.
“Not really,” the chief replied. “We’ve got three men down in a shooting on Pennsylvania Avenue.”
“Any ID?”
“I’m waiting for that, now. Hang on a minute.”
Kinney was placed on hold, and he waited impatiently, tapping a foot and drumming his fingers on his desk.
The chief came back on. “It’s bad, Bob,” he said. “Speaker Efton has been shot twice and is being transported to Walter Reed Hospital as we speak. One Secret Service agent is dead and another down.”
“Any suspects?”
“We’re looking for a silver Mercedes that left the scene at high speed,” the chief replied. “That’s all I’ve got at the moment. I’ll get back to you when I have more.”
Kinney had barely hung up the phone when his secretary buzzed him. “It’s the president,” she said.
Kinney didn’t want to talk to the man, but he had to.
53
KINNEY TOOK A FEW deep breaths while he waited for the president to come on the line.
“Bob?”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“Tell me about your trip to Atlanta.”
“First, Mr. President, I have to tell you that I’ve just learned from the D.C. police chief that the speaker of the House has been shot on Pennsylvania Avenue, on his way to the Capitol.”
“Good God! Is he dead?”
“He’s on his way to Walter Reed, sir. A Secret Service agent is dead and another wounded.”
“Was it Fay?”
“I have no evidence to that effect yet, sir, but I have no doubt that it is.”
“Was Rawls of any help?”
“Yes, sir. He told us that Fay might be using a hangar at Manassas Regional Airport, south of Washington. I landed there on the way back, and we raided it at the earliest possible moment.”
“And…?”
“The hangar was empty, but my crime scene team found a wristwatch that had apparently been run over by a car or truck. It had stopped four minutes before my SWAT team arrived.”
“And it was Fay’s?”
“I believe so, sir, but he had cleared the hangar of any evidence that he might have been there.”
“What’s your next move?”
“Rawls also told us that he believed Fay had bought a cottage on an island in Maine, Islesboro.”
“I know the place. My wife has spent some time on the island.”
“We’ve checked with the local postmaster and located the house. I have a team on the way to the island as we speak, and I had planned to leave myself almost immediately, until I heard about the Efton shooting. I want to look into that before I leave. I’ve also alerted every state police department between Washington and Maine to be on the lookout for Fay. We believe he’s driving an RV.”