An assassin. He was out there somewhere. No doubt the Secret Service would redouble its efforts to guard the Vice-President and Mrs. Bush, but he would check to see if they needed more people.
So he got on the radio and began. He knew he would be at it all night and into tomorrow, and he was. Understandably, Hooper completely forgot about the grand jury and Freeman McNally. They would have to wait.
Henry Charon settled into the Hampshire Avenue apartment to watch television. He was munching a bag of chips and sipping a beer when someone knocked on the door.
He scanned the apartment. Nothing lying around that would incriminate him. Leaving the television on, he opened the door.
“Hello, Mr. Tackett,” Grisella Clifton said. “Remember me? The building manager?” She was wearing a frumpy housedress and a bulky sweater.
“Oh, sure. Grisella, right?”
She nodded. “My television is on the fritz. May I watch with you?”
“Sure. Come in.”
She settled in on the couch. He offered her some potato chips and beer. “I just couldn’t. I’m not the least bit hungry. Isn’t this whole thing so tragic?”
Henry Charon agreed that it was and plopped into the stuffed lounge chair.
“You’re watching NBC? I’ve been watching CNN. They’ve been talking to some witnesses who saw the crash. What could have gone wrong with that helicopter?”
Charon shrugged. “We can change the channel if you like.”
“If you don’t mind. I think CNN is so … so newsy.” Obligingly, he rose and turned the dial. “I just can’t believe what happened to my set. The picture suddenly got all fuzzy. Just when there is something important on, it quits. Isn’t that so typical?”
“Ummm.”
“I do hope you don’t mind this intrusion. But I just needed to be around someone. In the midst of life … It really bothers me, y’know?”
He nodded and glanced at her. She prattled on. He found he could hear anything important said on TV and still catch enough of her remarks to make appropriate responses.
She ceased talking when a doctor at Bethesda Naval Hospital came on the show. He explained the extent of the President’s injuries in detail to the dozens of reporters and used a pointer and a mannequin to answer questions.
What if he survives? Charon asked himself. He had been paid to kill Bush, not put him in the hospital.
Not a word had yet been said on TV about an assassination attempt, but no doubt the Secret Service and FBI knew. The physical evidence of the helicopter would shriek murder to the first professional aircraft accident investigator who looked. Getting to Bush for a second attempt would be a real neat trick.
Listening to Grisella Clifton’s nervous chatter — why was she nervous, anyway? — watching the images on the screen, he began to examine the problem. The armor might have a crack somewhere. He would have to think about it.
All over America, in hamlets and cities and on farms, people gathered around televisions or sat in automobiles with the radios on. The President of the United States lay in a hospital close to death, and two hundred and fifty million Americans held their breath.
It didn’t matter if you had voted for George Bush or against him, whether you liked his politics, whether you even knew what his politics were. You sat and listened and were deeply moved as the condition of the President became known. He was seriously injured, with a concussion, broken ribs, a damaged spleen and a seriously fractured leg.
The surgeon at Bethesda reappeared on the television and ignored all the shouted questions. “We don’t know. We don’t know. We’re running tests and we’ll see.” He paused, listened to the cacophony a moment, then said, “He’s unconscious. His vital signs are erratic. We don’t know.”
He was not a king, not a dictator, but a fellow American who had been chosen to lead the nation for a period of four years. Four years — long enough for a skillful politician who understood the mood and spirit of the people to accomplish something worthwhile, yet not enough time for a fool or incompetent to do irreparable damage.
The nation had had all kinds of presidents in the 201 years since George Washington had taken the oath of office. Yet each of them had understood that they spoke for their fellow citizens, and by doing so they created in the American people a deep, abiding respect for the office of the presidency and the men who held it that seemed, in a curious way, to have little to do with the individual merit or personal failings of each temporary occupant. Americans expected the president to weigh the interests of everyone when he made a decision, to speak for all of them. From their congressmen and senators they expected partisanship; from their president they expected leadership. This working politician, this common citizen they raised to the high place, he became the embodiment of their unspoken hopes and dreams. In some vague, slightly mystical way, he became the personification of America. And of all it stood for.
So on this Sunday evening in December, all over America people collected themselves and took stock. Churches were opened so that those so inclined could pray and hear words of comfort. Parents told their children where they were and what they had been doing when they heard that John F. Kennedy had been assassinated. Switchboards jammed as millions decided to call home and touch base with their roots. In airports, shopping malls, and bars from coast to coast, as they gathered around television sets strangers spoke to each other.
There were incidents, of course. In Dallas a man in a bar cheered when an announcer said the President’s life was in grave danger; he was severely beaten and, had he not been rescued by hastily summoned police, would probably have been beaten to death. An Iranian with a long-expired student visa lost his front teeth at a shopping mall in suburban Chicago after he loudly announced that George Bush deserved to die. In San Francisco a waiter dumped a tray of food in the lap of a self-styled animal rights activist who expressed a similar opinion. The activist repeated her remark to the manager who had rushed to apologize, and he summarily ejected her and apologized to his other patrons, who applauded loudly.
At nine-thirty that evening one of the network correspondents informed the White House press secretary’s office that his network had a story that the dead pilot of the President’s helicopter had mentioned explosions—“like missiles”—in his last transmission to Dulles Approach. The network was going with the story on the hour. Did the White House wish to comment.
Yes, it did. The press secretary said he would hold a news conference at ten-fifteen, and he asked the network to hold the story until after the conference. After a hurried consultation with New York, the correspondent agreed.
At ten twenty-two that night the White House press secretary appeared at the rostrum in the basement press room and squinted as his eyes adjusted to the glare of the floodlights. He held a paper in front of him and read from it. At his side were the directors of the Secret Service and the FBI.
“The Vice-President of the United States has authorized me to announce that the helicopter accident this afternoon which claimed the lives of five people was an assassination attempt. We assume—”
He got no further. People who knew better shouted questions at the top of their lungs.
The press secretary waited for the uproar to die. He swabbed his forehead with a handkerchief and continued to stare at the paper in his hand. Finally he resumed: