“Right,” the agent said. “Go ahead.”
Zeke walked toward the area under the podium, waving at another agent, who was guarding the front entrance to the area. He let himself into the electrical closet and went to work. He removed the screws from the ceiling he had built into the closet, set the gelignite on top of the plywood, and secured it in place with duct tape. Then he had only to connect the previously placed wires to the two detonators and stick them into the explosive, which had the consistency of modeling clay. He used two detonators, in case one might be defective. He screwed the plywood ceiling back into place and spent a moment checking the appearance of everything, then looked at his watch. Lee was scheduled to speak at nine o’clock, and it was 7:35. He closed his toolbox and left the closet.
“Everything okay?” the agent asked as Zeke departed the platform.
“Everything’s just perfect,” Zeke replied.
George Kiel, having been introduced to the convention, took the podium and made a rousing acceptance speech; then he introduced the vice president and stepped away from the podium.
Joe Adams stepped to the microphone amid thunderous applause. When he had finally quieted them, he began to speak. “Let me begin by telling you that if I had handpicked our candidates myself, the same two fellows would be on this platform tonight.” More applause.
Zeke was already at Los Angeles International Airport. He parked his car in a dim corner of the long-term garage, removed his suitcase from the trunk, changed into a business suit, then found a bottle of Windex and a cloth and methodically sprayed and wiped every square inch of the Lexus, inside and out. Windex had been his friend at the Las Vegas apartment and at Rosa’s house, and he had removed every trace of himself from both places. Now the car would be just as clean. He wiped the spray bottle clean, dropped it into the trunk with the cloth, and closed it with his elbow; then he picked up his suitcase and headed for the check-in counter.
On the way, he stopped in the shadows for a moment, removed an electric shaver from his bag, popped up the trimmer, and quickly shaved off his moustache. Then he put on a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. At the counter he presented his ticket, which he had bought at a travel agent’s office the day before, then headed for the gate. He had plenty of time, so he checked in again, then took a seat at the bar across from his gate and ordered a scotch. Joe Adams was on the TV, and he had just begun his speech. He was running a little late and long, Zeke thought. His flight left at nine-thirty, and it was already ten minutes past. He had to make the call before he boarded, and it was going to be tight.
Joe Adams was winding up. “Now I present to you, and I say this with absolute certainty, the next president of the United States, Will Lee!”
Adams stepped back, and Will came forward. The crowd went wild. Will stood with Joe Adams as the cameras flashed and the crowd roared, then he waved George Kiel forward to join them. The three men stood together on the podium and waved to the crowd.
Zeke stared at the television image. They had issued a last call for his flight, and he wanted Lee alone on the podium when he made the call, but why not take out the three of them all at once?
Under the platform, Hank Greenbaum, the crew foreman, stepped through the door and showed the agent in charge his ID badge. “Have you seen Harry Grant?” he asked. “He’s one of my men, the one with the handlebar moustache.”
“Yeah, he was in here, I don’t know, maybe an hour ago, but I haven’t seen him since.”
“Funny,” Greenbaum said, “I haven’t been able to find him anywhere.” He walked forward to the electrical closet and went inside. He picked up the wall-phone receiver, punched the button for the last line, and called the maintenance office. “This is Greenbaum,” he said. “You seen anything of Harry Grant?”
“Last I heard of him, he was doing a final check on the sound system. I wanted to speak to him, too.”
“Hang on a minute, and I’ll look around for him,” Greenbaum replied. He pressed the hold button and left the closet.
Zeke punched the number into his cell phone, staring at the TV screen and the three men. Busy signal. “What the hell?” he said aloud.
“Huh?” the man next to him said.
“Sorry,” Zeke replied.
“Mr. Warren, Mr. Warren,” a woman’s voice said over a loudspeaker, “your flight has boarded and is about to depart. Please come to the boarding gate immediately.”
Warren was the name on his ticket. Redialing the number, Zeke trotted toward the gate. Still busy. He walked down the ramp and into the airplane, redialing. Still busy.
“I’m sorry, sir,” a flight attendant said, “you’ll have to turn off your cell phone; FCC regulations.”
Zeke punched off the phone and took his seat. “How soon can I use that?” he asked, pointing at the airphone on the bulkhead a few seats away.
“Not until we’re at our cruising altitude and the seat-belt sign goes off,” she replied.
“How long will that be?”
“We’re pushing back now; shouldn’t be too long.”
Zeke buckled himself in, staring at the airphone.
Will stood alone on the podium. “My fellow Democrats,” he said, “I am honored to accept your nomination.”
The crowd roared.
Will quieted them and began his speech.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen; this is the first officer speaking; the captain is pretty busy. We’re climbing through twenty-five thousand feet now, and we should be at our cruising altitude of thirty-three thousand feet shortly.”
Relief swept over Zeke. He looked at his watch: 9:45. Lee should be right in the middle of his speech.
The first officer continued his spiel as Zeke stared at the airphone. He felt the airplane level off, and he looked up at the seat-belt sign, which was still on. The airplane began to buck and lurch.
“We’re encountering some weather this evening,” the first officer said, “so we’ll be leaving the seat-belt sign on for a little longer, until things quiet down. We could be encountering some severe turbulence, so I must caution you to keep your seat belts tightly fastened until we’re able to turn off the seat-belt light.”
Zeke flagged down a flight attendant who was struggling up the aisle. “Miss, would you please hand me that telephone?” he asked, pointing at the airphone.
“I’m sorry,” she replied, “but you’d need to place your credit card in the phone before the receiver will release, and I have to get to my own seat now; the turbulence is getting pretty bad.”
Zeke fished a credit card out of his pocket. “Could you do it for me?”
“All right,” she said, reaching for the card.
Zeke suddenly snatched it back. “Never mind,” he said.
The woman went to her seat and buckled herself in.
He couldn’t use a credit card. The name on it was Harry Grant, and the records would tell the cops which flight he had taken. “God damn it!” he spat.
“Sir,” the woman next to him said sternly, “I know it’s rough up here, but please watch your language!”
Zeke continued to swear, but only in his head.
Will wound up his speech and, once again, called Joe Adams and George Kiel to the podium to share in the ovation.
A little before two o’clock the following morning, a man named Walter Edmonds stood up in a bar on Melrose Avenue and, staggering a little, made his way to a nearby pay phone. He’d had too much to drink, and he already had one DUI on his driving record. He’d have to call his wife to come and get him, and she was not going to be happy about that.