A cloud of blue-gray smoke hovered over the carnage, and he saw one of the parishioners clutch at his throat and fall to the pavement. Then he saw anotherand a third.
Myers's car exploded, and Bogner realized that the fire had finally gotten to the gas tank. If there had been any hope for Myers or Breeden, it was gone now.
Then, without warning, there was a mocking silence. He could hear people cryingbut the gunfire had ceased. All that was left were sounds of the aftermath of terror.
Far away in the distance there was the sound of sirens and people running. Bogner dropped to his knees, looked back at the devastation and carnage, and finally at the body of the motionless Schubatis, and collapsed.
Chapter Three
When Bogner opened his eyes, the room was dark. There was a small night-light next to the door, and in the pale illumination he could see the cloaked silhouette of a man.
The man saw Bogner stir and moved to the side of the bed. ''How are you, Toby?" The voice showed concern.
Bogner wetted his lips and tried to organize his thoughts. Out of the chaos and confusion, all he could come up with was the flickering, half-formed images and fragments of a recurring nightmare. He saw Schubatis's face, and then a woman with her body broken. She was crying and holding the body of a child. Part of the child was missing.
Bogner closed his eyes, trying to seal out the nightmare. Only then was he aware of still another voice. It was on the far side of the room, near the heavily draped window. Despite its familiarity, it took an eternity for Bogner to quite make out whose voice it was. Finally it got through to him. It was Joy. He called out to her.
Packer looked at him.
"Joy's here, isn't she?" Bogner's voice was edgy and uncertain.
Packer looked across the room at the floor nurse and shook his head. Bogner closed his eyes again when he realized he had been wrong. Then he forced out the question he knew he had to ask. "Schubatis?"
Packer hesitated. In the semidarkness, Bogner could hear the man's measured breathing. Finally Packer answered, "I'm afraid he didn't make it."
There was another prolonged silence before Bogner stirred and tried to sit up. When he did, the nurse protested. She did it in such a way that Bogner knew she didn't expect him to pay any attention to her.
Packer reached over, turned on the small light on the nightstand next to Bogner's bed, and pulled up a chair. He kept his voice low, almost at a whisper.
"Look, Toby, I'm not going to pull any punches. No matter how bad you think it is, I'm here to tell you that it's a helluva lot worse. Not only is Milo Schubatis dead, those bastards got Mrs. Schubatis, the interpreter, and Aprihinen's liaison officer as well. Myers, Capelli, and Breedennone of them made it. Right now you may not think so, but you're the lucky one."
Bogner closed his eyes again. "What about all those people at the church?"
"At this point we don't have anything even close to a final count. So far we've got seventeen confirmed dead and forty-one known casualtiesseveral of those aren't expected to make it."
"Who the hell was it?" Bogner managed.
"At twelve noon, the CNN people in Atlanta received a call from a man identifying himself as a representative of the Fifth Academy. He played a tape by a man who calls himself Tang Ro Ji. Tang claims that the Fifth Academy death squad faction of the PRC was responsible for the attack on Schubatis."
"Tang Ro Ji," Bogner repeated. "That's the same guy who claimed the Fifth Academy was responsible for the Saratoga explosion."
"And the Royal Opera House," Packer added. "But that's not all. Exactly one hour after news of Schubatis's death went out over the wire and was picked up in Moscow, Aprihinen was on the phone to President Colchin. The son of a bitch was already doing a little saber rattling."
"Did Colchin tell him about Tang's phone call?"
Packer nodded. "Affirmative, but Aprihinen isn't buying it. And, under the circumstances, I can't say I blame him. Aprihinen finally feels secure enough to let Schubatis attend the AMBA conference, and less than an hour after the old boy lands on American soil, he gets his face blown off. He has reason to be suspicious."
"I don't suppose it helps any that we're, too, saying it was the Fifth Academy," Bogner added.
Packer was silent for a moment. Then he asked the question he had been sent there to ask. "How are you feeling?"
"A tad wobbly," Bogner admitted. Then he poked around to see how just how wobbly he was. "Why?"
"Lattimere Spitz called here less than thirty minutes ago. If you can make it, he wants us over at the head shed at 1800 hours. I told him we'd try. According to the doctor, you've got an assortment of bumps, bruises, and a couple of first-degree burnsbut outside of that you're in one piece."
Bogner had to try twice before he was able to swing his legs over the edge of the bed and sit up. When he did he was still shaking, and the nurse stepped forward to protest.
"We can do without the macho routine, Captain. You stay right where you're at."
Bogner forced a laugh and waved her off.
"Look, sweetheart, I know you've got your instructions, but whoever you got them from, I can damn well assure you I take my cues from someone with a helluva lot more clout than some doctor."
Bogner knew the routine: David Colchin, a Texan by birth, favored the Southwest Room of the White House for his meetings. A Charlie Russell painting of a cantankerous bronc tearing up a cow camp in the morning mist was hanging above the gas-fired fireplace to set the tone for the President's meetings. Colchin called the painting symbolic.
Now Bogner, with skin abrasions on his left cheek and right arm, and burns on both hands, waited with Packer for the Chief Executive.
Lattimere Spitz, Colchin's volatile but longtime aide, and the President's conduit to the ISA, had already arrived. He was wearing what Bogner considered Lattimere Spitz standard issue: a single-breasted navy blue suit, white shirt, and regimental red and dark blue Princeton tie. Spitz, a homely man, had a hawk nose, pinched eyes, and thick glasses. On the coffee table in front of him was a manila file folder with the words Top Secret emblazoned across it in rubber-stamped bold red letters. As usual, Spitz was sitting in the chair by the fireplace with his fingers tented and his face creased in a scowla posture Packer was convinced was the only one the man knew. Packer also conceded that it wasn't Spitz's job to smile.
"Have you seen the pictures of Schubatis, T.C.?" Spitz questioned. "The ones taken at the hospital."
"You mean they've already cataloged the" Bogner began.
"We don't waste time," Spitz cut in. He handed Bogner the folder. He removed the contents, began to read the medical report, then glanced at the black-and-white morgue photographs. Suddenly he looked up, first at Packer, then at Spitz. "Look, Lattimere," he said, "I know I'm still a little shaky, but something isn't right here."
Spitz cocked his head to one side. "What isn't right?"
"Let me put it like this," Bogner said haltingly. "Unless someone reversed the negative, this isn't Schubatis. It sure as hell isn't the man I picked up at Bolling this morning."
Dr. Lo Chi Lyn was a small man with a twitch in his eye and the nervous habit of talking to himself. Even though his wife had called it to his attention hundreds of times, Lo Chi Lyn, at the ripe old age of seventy-one, had decided he was too old to do anything about it.
Now he walked around his patient, studying the nature of the man's wounds. As he did, he recited his appraisal of each of the lesions and abrasions to a young woman who sat at the desk in the far corner of the room, carefully making note of his comments.