That would be Special Agent Thomas F. Hooper. Yocke made a note as Hooper spoke to General Land. “… they came in on a freighter last week. At least twenty of them, armed to the teeth, paid to commit suicide.”
“So there’s probably going to be more of this?” General Land said.
“Yes,” Hooper told him.
“Do your sources have any feel for their targets?”
That was Jake Grafton speaking.
“Anywhere there are people,” Hooper replied. “The more people, the better for them.”
“Well, Captain?” General Land said.
“If we could just get everybody to stay home for a couple of days, sir, and use the time to search house-to-house — every building, every store, every apartment — a couple of days would do it. If we shut down all the public transportation and forbid everyone to use their cars, we could do it.”
“FBI?”
Hooper pulled at his earlobe. “That’s my recommendation too, General.”
“General Greer.”
Greer was the general in direct charge of the National Guard and army units, which had been integrated into one command. He considered for ten seconds. “That’s probably the only way, I think. We’ve got to find these people and keep crowds from congregating while we do it. Those are the priorities.”
“We’re only four days away from Christmas,” Congresswoman Strader noted aloud.
Land glanced at her, then back to Greer and Hooper. “Okay. You’ve got two days to find these people. Nothing moves inside the beltway unless it’s a military or emergency vehicle. I want a concrete plan on how you’re going to do this on my desk in three hours.”
“General, I suggest we shut everything down at midnight,” Jake Grafton added. “Be a nightmare trying to do it any other way.”
“Midnight it is,” said General Land. He didn’t get to be a four-star general by being indecisive. “That’ll give us eight hours to figure out how we’re going to get this unscrewed.”
Jack Yocke scribbled furiously, bitterly aware of the irony of his position. He was hearing the scoop of the decade only because Jake Grafton had made him promise not to print anything.
Then he became aware that somehow he was no longer in the circle of people. Apparently the group had moved, almost ten feet, no doubt because General Land had moved. Wherever the chairman was was going to be the center of the action. Yocke rejoined the conference.
“… that negotiation is key to resolving situations like we had here today without bloodshed,” Strader was saying, her voice firm and businesslike. Lecturing to the anthropoids, Yocke thought, and jotted the impression down.
General Land’s reply was inaudible.
Strader’s voice carried. “Why haven’t you consulted with the FBI crisis-response team? They’re expert at negotiating with terrorists and criminals in hostage situations.”
This time Yocke caught the reply. “This was not a terrorist or a hostage situation, ma’am. These men were out to kill as many people as possible. This was an atrocity pure and simple and the men who did it knew they were going to die.”
“You don’t know that!”
“I know a war when I’m in one, madam.”
“And I’m telling you that you don’t know what those men wanted because General Greer didn’t take the time to talk to them. Those men might be prisoners if General Greer had talked instead of charging in willy-nilly shooting everybody in sight.”
“Madam—” General Land began icily.
Strader chopped him off and bored in for the kill. “The aggressive behavior of your troops may be the reason those men shot all these civilians.”
“General Greer did exactly the right thing. These people didn’t want to talk.” Land’s voice had a razor-sharp edge. “They were too busy chasing down unarmed men and women and slaughtering them like rabbits. They might have laid down their arms, it’s true, after they killed everyone in sight.”
“… lives at stake here.”
“When are you goddamn dithering fools gonna figure out you can’t negotiate with people who don’t want to negotiate?” The general’s voice was a roar, the anger palpable. “Now I’ve listened to all of the free advice I can stomach. I’ve got better things to do than stand here and shoot the shit with some civilian! Who the hell are you, anyway?”
“I’m Congresswoman Strader. I’m on the presidential commission to—”
“You can do your investigation later. Not now! Not here!”
“You wouldn’t say that if I were a man! I’ve got a pass signed by—”
“Major,” the general barked, “get her political ass out of my face, right fucking now.”
“Yes, sir!”
Infuriated, her face the color of a scalded lobster, Sam Strader was firmly escorted away.
When Jack Yocke had the last of it in his notebook in his private shorthand, he looked up, straight into the bemused face of Toad Tarkington.
“What we got here,” Tarkington said, “is a total entertainment package. Write that down too.”
“Tarkington!” It was Grafton calling.
Yocke followed the young naval officer.
“Let’s go,” Jake Grafton said. He began trotting toward the military sedan. “Someone just shot the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court.”
“Is he dead?”
“Apparently.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Henry Charon parked the car a block from the New Hampshire Avenue apartment and walked. The streetlights were on and the sky was dark. Raindrops were beginning to splatter on the pavement and poing on the car roofs.
One of the cars near the apartment house was the green VW bug wearing its trendy bumper stickers. Ah yes, the sweater lady.
He paused in the entryway and used his key on the mailbox. As he suspected it contained the usual circulars and junk mail addressed to “Occupant.” He put them in his pocket. He didn’t want mail to accumulate in the box because very soon now someone would look through that little window. An FBI agent or police officer, or maybe a soldier, but someone. Someone hunting him.
He looked again up and down the street. The rain was getting heavier. Perhaps setting in for the night.
The cold felt good. When you live in the wild long enough you get used to the cold. You learn to endure it and never feel it. It’s a part of everything and you fit in and adapt or you perish.
Henry Charon was good at that. He had learned to adapt. Becoming a part of his surroundings was his whole life.
So he stood for a few more seconds and let the cold and dampness seep over him as he listened to the tinny sound of the raindrops striking the cars.
Then he inserted his key in the doorlock and went inside.
The door to the first apartment was ajar and he could hear the television. This was where the apartment manager lived, the sweater lady, Grisella Clifton.
Wouldn’t hurt to be seen for a moment. He paused at the door and raised his hand to knock.
She was seated in a stuffed chair in front of the television with a cat on her lap. Charon pushed the door open a few more inches. Now he could see the television. And hear the words:
“… an artist’s conception of the man who shot and wounded Attorney General Gideon Cohen yesterday at the Capitol in what may have been an attempt on the life of Vice-President Dan Quayle. This man is armed and very dangerous. If you see this man, do not attempt to apprehend or approach him, but notify the police immediately. At the bottom of the screen you will see a number to call if you think you might have seen this man. Please write this number down. And take a good, careful look.”