President's assassin

Mrs. Hooper looked more than a little relieved.

Jennie turned to Phyllis and said, "With this bargain, the Agency no longer has any justification for involvement. It's gone purely domestic." As if we needed to be reminded, she cautioned us, "Everything we do is going to undergo congressional and maybe public scrutiny"

I won't say Phyllis also looked relieved, but without sounding at all reluctant, she replied, "Of course."

Which put Jennie in the driver's seat and in charge of this mess. She said, "Mrs. Hooper, you need to call the President for permission to proceed."

Mrs. Hooper returned to studying the tabletop. "He's not going to pay them off. In any event, as his political adviser I still have to advise against it."

I said, "Why?"

She looked up at me. "Because nobody in this country will vote for a man who pays off murderers. But I know him. He'll say that's irrelevant. He'll say that indulging murderers is morally wrong and begets more murders and more murderers. He tends to be practical that way."

Jennie looked at me. I shrugged.

Mr. Wardell chose this moment to make an interesting observation. "Incidentally, Danny Carter was not one of our suspected targets. How in the hell was he involved in this Barnes thing?"

Jennie said, "He wasn't. He was a message."

"What message?" Mrs. Hooper asked.

"This confirms my speculation. It's no longer about revenge. They're now concerned only with money and making their escape. They're telling us they'll murder whoever they please, until their demands are met."

We all pondered that fresh insight a moment.

I noted the obvious. "We've lost our only advantage. We can't even guess who they're targeting."

"That's right. We can't," Jennie observed. She turned back to Mrs. Hooper. "Listen… I think there might be a way out of this for us and the President."

"What are you talking about?"

"Simple. We use the money to lure Barnes and his people into a trap."

Everybody thought about that proposal a moment.

Phyllis was the first to speak up. "I don't like it."

"Why not?"

"It will be expected. These are not stupid people, Jennifer. They'll take precautions."

"I'm sure they will. Entrapments are always a gamble. We have to outthink them."

Recognizing the thought that was running through all our minds, Jennie added, "The past doesn't always have to be a prelude to the future. Right?" She turned to Mrs. Hooper and suggested, "If this works, the President's a bold leader who rolled the dice. If it fails, his intentions were honorable, and we screwed up the execution."

I still wasn't sure this was such a good idea. On the other hand, I had really gotten myself into a box. I was the one who agreed to the deal.

Chuck Wardell was nodding, and Mrs. Hooper also began nodding. It was dawning on them that this wasn't a perfect solution, but there were no perfect solutions, and it satisfied everybody's needs, egos, and moral/political equations.

Actually, not quite everybody's.

Jennie knew it, too, because she turned to me and said, "Sean, the final vote is yours. They selected you as the courier."

"Right. Why?"

"Who knows? Perhaps because you're a lawyer, not a law enforcement professional. Perhaps they regard you as the least threatening option. But I doubt they'll accept a replacement. If it were possible, believe me, I would do this myself."

Everybody at the table was now avoiding my eyes.

Jennie assured me, "It won't be as risky as it sounds. We do this all the time, usually with kidnappers. We have experts in this field. You'll have the best professionals in the world backing you up."

Very persuasive. So I thought about it a little more. I thought about June Lacy and about Joan Townsend. I really wanted to get physically close to Jason Barnes. I had an almost burning need to put my hands around his throat. Also, if we didn't take this chance, every additional death would be on my shoulders, my conscience, my watch. Could I live with that?

Then again, I'd be an idiot to say yes. It was a desperate gamble and, like all reckless choices, was too obvious, too predictable, too transparent. Jason Barnes, a former Secret Service agent, would expect this; he would know the tricks, and as Phyllis noted, he would have safeguards and precautions. Also, up to this point, I was on the losing team, they were the winning team, and the underlying reasons for that hadn't changed.

When I was young and idealistic, brimming with youthful naivete, I would have regarded this as Sean Drummond's God-given duty in the eternal battle of good versus evil. But I had become too old and too worldly to subscribe to the facile conceit that the good guys always win, or even that the good guys always have to win. The truth is, it can be enough to just make the bad guys go away. Somewhere down in Brazil, I'm convinced, there's a quaint ville populated by smug assholes who gather in the bars every evening and regale one another with tales about how they got away with it. Fine. As long as they weren't still getting away with it.

So I looked Jennie straight in the eye and I said, "Great idea."

Jennie squeezed my shoulder. To Mrs. Hooper she said, "Please call the White House and get authorization." To Mr. Wardell, "Call your old bosses at Treasury. We need fifty million in clean, used bills here in one hour."

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

In no time, the room cleared, and bureau experts of various vintages and types began pouring in, including a heavyset Hispanic lady named Rita Sanchez. Jennie introduced us and informed me that Special Agent Sanchez was the FBI's expert in ransom and hostage extremis situations, whatever that means. I was really hoping she was here for her expertise in the former, not the latter.

Rita studied me a moment, then said, "So… you're the sucker, huh?"

I must've looked a little upset by that remark, because she laughed and said, "Hey, loosen up. You're gonna be fine. Payoffs are a Cakewalk. Hostages are the bitch. I've lost only"-she paused and counted her fingers-"only three couriers in my career." She laughed. "The other guy still sends me Christmas gifts."

For some reason, Jennie also found this really funny.

Personally, I thought Rita Sanchez's bedside manner could stand a little work.

Jennie then smoothly backed off and allowed Rita and me to chitchat about inconsequential nonsense for about five minutes. The manual calls this establishing rapport and developing a personal connection. Con men call it sizing up the mark.

Rita was very good at this, and in no time we bonded, were exchanging home addresses, and planning a future vacation together. Not really.

Anyway, Rita Sanchez had a slight Spanish accent, and was a bit plump for an agent, but it has been my experience that in image-conscious organizations that accentuate fitness and trimness-like the Army-exceptions get made for the prodigies. She was not particularly polished, but she struck me as street-smart and savvy.

Agent Sanchez pointed at a chair and said, "Sit. Now we're gonna go over a few things. Listen real close to every word. Seriously. Do everything I tell you, and the Bureau will buy you a nice steak dinner tonight."

Golden words. I sat.

"Let me tell you what could happen," she said. "Then I'll tell you what I think's gonna happen."

"Could we start with what I want to happen?"

She glanced at Jennie and commented, "Hey he's funny"

Jennie replied, "When he's stressed, he responds with sarcasm." She then lifted a hand to her ear and asked, "By the way, Rita, are those your knees I hear knocking?"

Yuck-yuck.

"All right," Rita informed me, "for starters, they might run you around a bit. Probably inside the city, maybe around some built-up suburbs. This way they can blend into the environment and watch for tails."