Bo had always been the one offering help. It had been a long time since he’d needed any himself. He found it hard being on the other side of charity, having something as simple as an old blanket and spare change mean so much.
“Thanks.”
“No thanks necessary. Just be careful, okay?”
Bo retrieved his Sig from the church pew and stuffed it into the bedroll. Otter’s final offering was a strong hug, then Bo took his leave.
He walked the streets as the dark of night hardened around him. Clouds rolled in from the west and blotted out the stars. He stopped once, at a convenience store to buy toothpaste and a toothbrush, and to use the phone. Directory assistance was unable to help him. Lorna Channing’s telephone number was unlisted. Bo tried the White House using the code name Peter Parker, but he got nowhere.
When he reached the river, he followed the east bank of the Mississippi, walking along a jogging path that finally ended in the broken concrete of old docks and landings no longer used and fallen into disrepair. Behind him, the towers of the downtown district spiked toward a sky domed with an overcast that reflected the glitter and glare of the city. Ahead of him, high above the river, a row of lit globes slanted down from Cherokee Heights like a broken string of pearls. The High Bridge. Bo passed under the girders and made his way to the place where once, long ago, the old bus had sat on blocks and sheltered his street family. The bus was gone, but the site was still a deserted stretch of riverbank guarded by cottonwoods and cushioned by tall grass. Bo rolled out the blanket and sat down. A muddy smell flowed up from the river, thick as the water itself. He was in a place where eons before, glacial flooding had carved a deep chasm in the layers of sandstone. The houses atop the Heights were set back too far to be seen from the river, and the bluff beneath them was invisible in the dark. The great bridge seemed to connect with nothing at all. Bo recalled that only a couple of days before he’d been on top of the bridge, poised to plunge to his death, to ride into eternity on the current of the black water below.
His body hurt. His feet ached because the shoes Otter had given him were too small. His head was packed with facts and conjectures that whirled round and round and sucked all his thinking into a confusing maelstrom. He tried to sort a few things out.
He was certain now what NOMan’s goal was.
The assassination of the First Lady.
The murder of Kate.
It was possible that with Moses now truly at large and with Bo complicating things, they may have decided to call off the operation, but he knew that these were people accustomed to manipulating events on an enormous scale. The network of NOMan was so tightly woven into the mundane fabric of the legitimate system that it was almost invisible. They’d been operating so long and so effectively that by now they may have considered themselves invulnerable and were still determined to proceed with the killing.
But how? And where? And when?
He contemplated the wisdom of calling the field office in Minneapolis and telling them everything he knew and everything he suspected. Several considerations held him back. In the first place, there was the time a call like that would take. They’d have him located in a matter of moments, and they’d descend on him with extreme prejudice. If they took him into custody, NOMan would know exactly where he was. Bo wasn’t eager to become a stationary target for an organization that may well have infiltrated the Secret Service in the way it had other agencies. He could easily be killed before he had a chance to state his case. He’d end up just one more incident discussed by conspiracy theorists on the Internet.
He considered spilling the whole story to the newspapers. Again, no guarantee his allegations would make it into print. He had no proof of anything. If Tom Jorgenson didn’t offer supporting testimony and if NOMan called off the hit and nothing happened, he’d be labeled loonier than ever.
The most hopeful strategy would be to anticipate their move and intercept them. This ran contrary to all his training and to the protective doctrine of the Secret Service, which was to cover the protectee and evacuate. But evacuate where? Under assault by an organization as ubiquitous, invisible, and determined as NOMan, was any place safe?
Bo was exhausted. He lay back on the blanket, looked up at the empty night sky, and thought about Kate. He wondered what she must think of him now. Probably, she was thinking he was insane and she was lucky that he hadn’t gone berserk when they’d been alone together.
The sound of thunder came from far away, but Bo didn’t see any lightning. A few drops hit him in the face. Great. On top of everything else, it was going to rain.
chapter
forty-three
President Daniel Clay Dixon was somewhere over North Carolina. Sitting alone in his private compartment aboard Air Force One, he took a moment to look up from the White House news summary and appreciate the color of the evening sky. It looked like a great fire was burning somewhere beyond the Blue Ridge. Then he took another moment to sit back and close his eyes.
He was feeling good. The Pan-American summit had gone well, ended with a signing of a good-faith agreement by all the heads of state in attendance. The president had been accorded the honor of giving the closing address, and his words had been received with a standing ovation. He felt that something significant had been accomplished. In his presidency thus far, that had been a rare feeling.
He was about to return to reading the news summary, a document prepared for him four times daily, when his phone rang.
“Mr. President, Lorna Channing is on the line.”
“Go ahead,” Dixon said. “Lorna, what’s up?”
“Have you read your news summary?”
“I’m just doing it now. Something I should know?”
“Page three.”
Dixon thumbed the summary and saw what concerned Lorna.
A brief article reported that Special Agent-in-Charge Diana Ishimaru, head of the Minneapolis field office of the Secret Service, had been found shot to death in her St. Paul home. Authorities were searching for Special Agent Bo Thorsen, who was wanted for questioning in the shooting death. Thorsen’s car was found at the victim’s home, and neighbors reported that a man matching Thorsen’s description had been observed in the area just prior to the time of death. Earlier in the day, Thorsen reportedly instigated an altercation involving Ishimaru. Thorsen was currently under suspension from his duties pending a formal inquiry into the events surrounding the attempted assassination of the First Lady at her family home in Minnesota.
“Christ, what’s going on?” Dixon said.
“If you believe the reports, our man’s gone postal.”
“Has he contacted you?
“Not a word. I didn’t even know he’d left D.C. I’ve talked with Stanton. He’ll be here when you arrive. I thought it would be best if we were briefed together.” She was talking about Gerald Stanton, director of the Secret Service.
“Good.” The president glanced out the window again, at the sky that seemed to reflect a distant fire.
“John Llewellyn’s got a burr under his saddle,” Lorna said. “He’s talking resignation.”
“Maybe that won’t be necessary.”
“No?”
“Maybe I’ll just fire him.”
Stanton was a big, strong-looking man with a wide face, gray hair, and a glare that he wielded like a stone ax. A veteran of more than a quarter century with the Secret Service, he had, among other assignments, headed the POTUS detail for two presidents. While he was always respectful of the office of the chief executive, he’d seen too much of the human side of the presidency to be intimidated by the man who occupied the Oval Office.
Stanton sat in a wing chair and Channing in another. The president sat on the sofa opposite them.
“What have you got?” Dixon asked.