The thought left him when he entered the small office, separated from the hangar by glass. A cot had been moved in there, and a second later his body disappeared below the window line.
Three
A CERTAIN MR. JACKSON
The maroon Ford Taurus sat idle among a sea of cars whose engines were coming to life as FBI agents and employees of the impound yard worked methodically to move the other vehicles surrounding it. There normally would be a steady roar as cars passed the Harbor Tow Company on the 110 freeway as noon approached, but the air was silent except for the noise in the yard itself and the background sounds of police radios. At the request of the Bureau, the California Highway Patrol had closed the old freeway, so aged and dangerously curved that trucks were forbidden to travel it from downtown to Pasadena.
A senior agent of the Bureau’s bomb unit approached Art, who was standing behind the only protective barrier available, just fifty feet from the car.
“Art. How’s it going?” Agent Larry Purnell asked.
“You tell me in about a half an hour,” Art answered.
“Ha.” Purnell laughed. “You think this’11 save your ass?” He patted the cinder block wall.
“Thanks.” Art knew that Purnell’s triple-layered Kevlar and Nomex ‘moon suit’ would do little to protect him if the car was booby-trapped.
Another member of the bomb unit came up. “Nothing obvious.”
“You check the wheel wells?” Purnell inquired, pulling on his Kevlar-covered bubble helmet.
“Yes, sir.”
Larry Purnell smiled wide through the clear Lexan faceplate. “Good. We’ll sweep it again.”
“Right.”
“Larry.” Art put his hand on the man’s padded shoulder. “The manager said they slim-jimmed it when it came in. Still, no heroes. Okay?”
“Me?” His smile hinted of the devious. “C’mon.”
Minutes later the area around the Ford was clear and the preliminary sweeps of the vehicle’s underside for explosive triggers was done. The fact that the vehicle came in on the hook of a tow truck pretty much ruled out any motion sensors to trigger a device, and a door- or domelight-activated switch was not likely since the driver’s door had been opened in the yard. But was there a key switch? Purnell would be the first to know.
First would be the trunk. Every person in the yard cringed or ducked behind cover as the agent inserted and turned the key. There was an immediate click as the trunk lid popped up a few inches. Purnell was careful not to touch anything as he gave the rear of the vehicle a cursory inspection. He next moved counterclockwise around the vehicle, opening each door. The hood was last. He released it from inside, then inspected the engine compartment carefully, taking extra time to look for any additional wires or parts. Once a car he was checking was equipped with two batteries, the second one having four sticks of dynamite inside.
There was no explosion or hint of any booby trap. It wasn’t ‘tricked.’ Art breathed now, not only because of the lack of explosion, but because the key fit. It was the car. Confirmed. He was just damn glad that a young agent had had the gray matter to put two and two together when no one else could see the numbers. After striking out on her first check of one of the many parking garages downtown, a rather clever thought had struck her. The belief was that the shooters had parked nearby in one of the public pay lots and walked to the 818. It made sense. But Special Agent Francine Aguirre had come up with a different idea: What if the shooters just had parked the car on the street? The nearest lot was on the back side of the 818, which would have required them to walk around to the front. Two M-16s and LAW rockets would not have been the easiest things to hide on the downtown street. Aguirre’s theory also made sense, and more of it. If the shooters were on a one-way mission, why garage their car? Just street-parking it would ensure its proper disposal by the parking enforcement unit of the city, whose contracted tow trucks swept the congested downtown streets clear of illegally parked vehicles. Her quick thinking earned a personal commendation from Art, and a bump up on the investigative team. She and her partner were already at the LAX-based rental company whose license plate frame identified the car as one of theirs. Eddie was coordinating this new aspect of the investigation from the Hilton.
Art would wait with the car as the forensic teams poured over it. He doubted they would find much. That was the way this thing was going. Eddie was right. The shooters were damn stupid to leave the car where it could be found, but it protected their backsides. There was a trail that Art could imagine already. It stunk.
The car was a solid lead, though. That was satisfying. Art popped a stick of cinnamon gum in his mouth and pulled off his jacket. He leaned back, half sitting on the wall. The sun was beating down as it had for so many days. The weatherman said it would be cooler than the day before. Art wasn’t sure about that. It felt like another hot one coming on.
The president stood alone in the Oval Office, touching the front of his desk lightly as he gazed through the windows to the outside. On the credenza, along with the recently placed pictures of his wife and parents, was the gumball machine that had belonged to the late president. His widow had insisted that it should stay there, with her husband’s successor. And the chair. It was a bright, fire-engine-red rocker that was known as the Santa Claus chair. He never even had the chance to be Santa for his grandkids in the White House. She wanted the chair to stay too. Damn.
An early-autumn storm was falling outside, though it felt more like one of late summer. It was humid and warm, an uncomfortable combination, but one not uncommon in Washington this time of year. Even the rain was warm. The president, however, was not aware of the climate beyond the glass. It was a comfortable sixty-eight degrees where he stood.
The car and driver were perks of his new position. Prior to the meeting, as expected, the president had asked Bud to take the position officially. He had readily accepted it. It would be a challenge. His biggest challenge.
His first dilemma in the position was the one in the past. Or was it? He could have informed the president of the revelations told him by the DCI, but he didn’t. That went against his better judgment, against his core feeling of duty and integrity. For whatever reason, things were different the further one progressed in government. So this is it? Bud wondered if it would happen to him. And the past. Was it really behind them? He would have given anything to be psychic just for a while.
Beltway traffic was picking up as the Secret Service Lincoln joined the throngs of other government workers leaving early. There was a pall over the city, and it had nothing to do with the weather. People were on autopilot, just performing. Only the stonehearted were unaffected by the killing of the nation’s leader.
Tomorrow would be a new day. The beginning of the fledgling president’s administration. Bud would be rested, as the president had insisted. Already he was feeling the lack of restful sleep catch up with him, but lying down in the backseat wouldn’t do. He would be home soon, anyway, which was all the better since his side was really starting to throb again. Fortunately there was a full bottle of Tylenol in the medicine cabinet.