He switched hands with the gasoline can and swiped a handkerchief across his forehead. He looked up at the cloudy sky. The summer night had the clammy feel of a sweat-soaked beach towel. It only served to deepen his sense of frustration.
Then the radio in his pocket, which he had turned up on leaving the convenience store, suddenly blared.
"Burke, come in! This is Roddy."
Even if he hadn't detected the alarm in Roddy's voice, it was obvious from the fact that he had dropped the pretense of code names that something had gone badly wrong. Burke pulled out the radio, pressed the transmit button. "Go ahead, Roddy."
"I just had a call from Yuri. I left him at Advanced Security a little while ago with an unconscious Nikolai Romashchuk. Obviously the bastard came to and waylaid Yuri. He said the Major had shot him and left. He could barely talk. He may be dead by now. The last thing he said was something about cannon fire in the 1812 Overture. Is that on the symphony program?"
"Right. It'll be toward the end. Probably between 8:45 and 9:00." Then the import of Yuri's words suddenly hit him. "Oh, God. I'll bet they plan to use the cannons to cover the firing of the mortars."
"Damn," Roddy said. "It's already well after eight." He told Burke about his conversation with Dutch Schuler.
"Where are you now?"
"Almost to Andrews. It's no more than a five or six-minute flight from there to the Capitol. We've still got a chance. Is there a park anywhere near you?"
Burke thought a moment. "Yeah. There's one around Virginia Avenue, north of the Navy Yard."
"Do you have your flashlight?"
"Right here."
"Find an open area in the park and wait for us. When you see the chopper coming, wave your flashlight in a circle and we'll pick you up."
The only daylight left was a glow on the western horizon as the stocky man in casual civilian clothes approached the bright lights of the gate to Andrews Air Force Base, best known as the home of Air Force One. He had a disgusted look on his face as he held out his ID card to the airman wearing the Security Police armband.
"Would you believe my damned car quit on me just a block away?" Warren Rodman said, shaking his head.
Spotting the "Colonel" on the green DD Form 2, the airman popped him a snappy salute. "Sorry to hear that, sir."
"Does the base bus stop near here? I've got some people waiting at Base Ops."
"Just a minute, sir. I'll check something for you."
Eyeballing the Andrews AFB sticker on an approaching car, the SP waved it through. One just behind it bore no sticker. The airman halted it with a raised hand. "Pull over to the building on your right," he told the driver. "You can pick up a Visitor Pass."
That was the reason Roddy had chosen to approach the gate on foot. He wanted to avoid the routine of requesting a pass for his car. He didn't know what might turn up on the computer if they punched his name into it.
"Hey, Sarge!" the airman called to a man standing in the doorway of the nearby building. "When will O'Sullivan be back?"
"He's on his way."
"Could he take the Colonel here over to Base Ops?"
"Sure."
The young SP nodded. "You can wait for him over there, sir."
"Thanks a lot," Roddy said, smiling.
He had hardly reached the building when a small blue utility vehicle drove up and the gravel-voiced sergeant waved down the driver, a lanky, khaki-clad youth with two stripes on his sleeve.
"O'Sullivan, drive this Colonel over to Base Ops. Then get your ass back here pronto. Capisce?"
Roddy had too much on his mind to be his usual talkative self, but he forced a bit of banter about the weather and the holiday. As it turned out, O'Sullivan had a heavy Boston Irish brogue. When he talked fast, as he did most of the time, he was more difficult to understand than Yuri Shumakov with his uncertain English.
At Base Operations, Roddy hurried over to the counter. The only customer was a lieutenant with a bristly flat-top haircut who had just arrived in a T-37 jet trainer.
"I'm Colonel Rodman," he said in a rush. "Which way to Major Schuler?"
"Through that door over there," the sergeant said, pointing.
He headed out to the flight line and spotted the MH-53J parked about two hundred feet away. Two guards stood nearby, a common practice where the Pave Low was concerned. Just the sight of it brought a flood of memories that swept over him like a warm tide. As he approached the silent chopper, Dutch Schuler stepped out onto the ramp dressed in a dark green flying suit, his blue cap with the gold oak leaf perched at a jaunty angle.
"Hi, Colonel!" he called, waving.
The first thing Roddy noted was the look on Schuler's face. It wasn't his usual smile. In fact, there was no smile at all. He appeared downright troubled.
"Hey, Dutch. Are we ready to go?"
Roddy suddenly felt a strong hand seize each arm in a firm grasp. He swung his head back and forth and found an armed SP on either side.
"What the hell…?"
Schuler wore a pained expression. "I'm sorry it had to be this way, Colonel. But it's the best thing for you. They said you'd get the best psychiatric help available."
Roddy stared in disbelief. If this was a nightmare, he hoped to hell he would soon wake up. "Psychiatric what… who promised?"
"General Patton."
"Wing Patton?"
"Yes, sir. He and my father-in-law are old buddies. They go way back. That's how I got my commission reinstated. General Patton called yesterday to see if I had heard from you. He told me how you'd gone off the deep end in Guadalajara and killed that woman. He warned me you were having some bad delusions, that you might make some wild claims about terrorists."
Rodman closed his eyes. His head was reeling. The way he felt right now, he wasn't too sure he might not really be going mad. Obviously, Adam Stern had been busy. The Roundtable leaders should be happy. They had now succeeded in neutralizing the only remaining avenue for stopping Major Nikolai Romashchuk's attack at the Capitol. If anybody needed psychiatric treatment, he thought, they surely did. But they were safely holed up out in the Rocky Mountains, and by the time word got out about the disaster in Washington, those who knew the truth would have been disposed of. He would be locked away in a padded cell. Yuri was likely already dead. They probably had another killer out stalking Burke Hill. Worst of all, Karen and the girls were doomed to die because he had failed them again.
"Hang onto him," said the older of the two Security Policemen, a staff sergeant, "while I check for weapons."
He patted Roddy down and pulled the Beretta from a front pocket. Then he removed the small radio from a back pocket, held it in his hand and stared at it.
"Okay," Roddy said, "so I'm really mad. I'm a music freak."
"Let him have his radio," Major Schuler ordered. "Get him inside. There's a doctor on the way to give him a shot and take him to the hospital."
74
As the cheering, the applause and the whistles died down, Lila Rodman glanced at her watch. It was 8:25. Then she smiled broadly and fixed her soft brown eyes on the stage as E. G. Marshall's voice once more rolled from the huge speakers.
"Our American music, as well as our American heritage, has its roots in many cultures around the globe. Folk music is the purest form to reflect a particular culture. A new group within the United States Air Force Band, called The ThunderBards, will perform a medley of three familiar folk tunes, one Scottish, one Irish, one American. Featured in the Scottish air will be Sergeant Ian McGregor."