Shadow Knight's Mate (42 page)

Rachel started leading Arden away, over to the edge. The woman would follow. They would draw her completely out of the square. Rachel felt like a fly fisher, flicking Arden across the surface of the crowd, letting her continue to be seen. A ripple through the crowd showed the rapid advance of the executive secretary.

Rachel said into her phone, “Jack, I have to say I was brilliant. I think things are okay here now. We'll—”

“That's great,” Jack said quickly, as if he hadn't harbored any doubts about her ability to handle the small problem of stopping a mass assassination without anyone's knowing. “Just one more question, Rache. Is Professor Trimble there?”

“Professor—? No, I haven't seen him here at all, Jack. Why? Why should he—?”

“Damn,” Jack said. “Good job. I'll see you two later.”

And he clicked off. Moments later the woman from the American delegation caught up to them, and the way the two women threw themselves on each other, the way they clung and wept, held Rachel's attention for minutes. She had tears in her own eyes as Arden said “Mommy” and the older woman whispered “my baby.” Obviously whatever influence or post-hypnotic suggestion had been guiding the woman had fallen away completely at her first sight in years of her child. They didn't offer each other any explanations, they wouldn't start talking for some time to come, but they hugged and whispered and cried. It was one of the sweetest moments Rachel had ever seen. She just stood and watched, a spectator to familial joy.

When she tried to call Jack back ten minutes later she couldn't reach him.

The White House, the next day

The desk in the Oval Office, as well as the coffee table, were scattered with newspapers from around the world, including the U.S. They all carried that same photo, of the summit leaders gathered around an empty chair adorned with the American seal. That's what the President of the United States had become on the world stage: an empty chair.

“Nothing happened,” the president said. “The summit went off brilliantly. Agreements have been reached. There are new statesmen today.”

“You could go now,” Dennis Wilkerson said. “There's still lots of work to be done. Everyone would be—”

The president glared him to silence. The glare was more effective because only the two of them were in the room at the moment. When the President started speaking, it was obviously a speech that had been building in him for hours.

“You made me look like a fool on the world stage. Worse, in front of my own people, at a time of the greatest national crisis we have ever faced. You are fired. You will not be allowed to take anything from your office. You will be escorted out of the building and to your apartment where Secret Service agents will watch you pack and take you to the airport. If you are lucky, I will not have your plane blown up in the air. You have one hour to get out of town.”

“Sir! I can still be of value to you. I have contacts no one else has. Secret information—”

“Who? Name one source.”

The NSA thought of his PlayStation2, smashed to pieces on Air Force One. “I'm sorry. I cannot reveal my—”

The President pressed a button on his desk. Two men in very black suits entered the Oval Office. “I was wrong,” the President
said. “You have thirty minutes.”

Dennis Wilkerson left under escort, almost whimpering. The President didn't even watch his departure. He was on the intercom to his assistant. “Get me the chief of staff and the secretary of state. Now.”

Twenty-six Days Later

All the president's men tried to spin it as a continuation of the summit, this time on American soil. Their motto was “America: where the world comes to finalize agreements,” but no one picked it up. It sounded too much like the work of a committee.

They couldn't get all the other seven heads of state. They claimed to have countries to run. Surprisingly, the Russian and French presidents agreed to come, while the British and Israeli heads begged off, though promising to come on another occasion.

So the American President's “peace summit” looked more like a press conference, with the Russian and French presidents smiling behind him, the men clasping hands in three-way clenches, so that the photo looked as if the President had managed to resolve hostilities between France and Russia.

But importantly, it was a coming out party. The riots, the successful summit, Dennis Wilkerson's making him look like a coward, all had convinced President Witt that his isolationist policy had been wrong. This occasion in Virginia was going to amount to his creeping back out onto the world stage, and he wanted someone holding his hand while he did that.

This was exactly what the Circle would have arranged.

The location was a small college, Galt University, which was actually the alma mater of the Secretary of State, who had suggested the location. The area was semi-rural, semi-suburban, or “bucolic,” as the school billed it, not too far from Washington but not in the shadow of U. Va. Not many presidents would have the nerve to make a major policy announcement with Mr. Jefferson looking over their shoulders. Galt College was perfect: small enough for security to be controlled closely, stately old buildings
including the auditorium where the press conference would be held, enthusiastic students, and professors who had told those students that their institution was about to become a historic site. “The place where America reclaimed the world stage,” more than one of them had put it. They hoped this President was up to the job of marking the occasion.

Security offered some problems, because the foreign presidents insisted on having their security forces involved, and the President's handlers insisted on a big audience for the opening press conference. Students and professors and journalists had credentials, including foreign journalists, but they all had to be checked, usually by more than one security person, and this occasion had been put together so hastily the Secret Service hadn't had a lot of time to inspect the auditorium. They managed to keep out suspicious strangers, but not the determined assassin with visiting-professor status.

Professor Don Trimble looked so much the part of a professor—which he had been playing for three decades—that hardly anyone bothered to check his ID. He carried a notebook, had a pipe in his mouth, his thinning blond-gray hair was disheveled, his tweed jacket had patches on the elbows. He took so long to find his ID that the impatient guard, a university cop, finally just pushed him through the metal detector. He cleared, that was good enough.

The professor made his way through the crowd, smiling and stopping to chat with colleagues, nod to students. The press conference was due to start in three minutes, which meant he had all the time in the world. He strolled around, enmeshed himself in the crowd, then made his way out to the lobby. There were security people scattered around, some of them obvious, a few not, but they didn't know the place nearly as well as Trimble did. Behind the box office was a nondescript unmarked door. Trimble made his way to it, not looking around, opened the door with a key, and slipped inside. He waited for his eyes to adjust to the semi-darkness, then started up the narrow stairs inside.

The Secret Service had not entirely neglected this staircase, though. At the top a young man in a nylon jacket turned and looked at the professor in surprise, reaching under his jacket.

“I'm sorry,” Trimble said in his befuddled way, “I've got some extra students and wanted to see if there's any room up here in the extra balcony.”

This was less a balcony than a large private box, above and to the left side of the floor of the auditorium and the stage. It had been reserved for foreign dignitaries who weren't coming, but no one had bothered to un-reserve it.

“Sir, I'm sorry, we're not allowing anyone to be seated up here. It's too un-secured a location. If you'll just—”

The guard was holding out his hands, because the professor was such a befuddled type that he kept advancing as if he didn't understand the language. Plus the guy had the obvious appearance of someone who'd been telling people what to do for so long that he didn't think rules applied to him.

“I understand,” Trimble said in his hazy way. “Plus I'm having a problem with this thing…”

He was fumbling with his pipe. The guard looked down at it, a little surprised the professor had been allowed to bring it in, but the people downstairs were pressed for time and the pipe looked as if it belonged in Trimble's hands or mouth. As the guard looked down, Trimble brought the pipe up, pressed a switch underneath, and shot a tiny dart into the guard's throat.

The guard almost got out the syllable “Uh,” but the poison was very fast-acting. Curare. Trimble had always wanted to use it. It paralyzed everything, including the lungs, so that the victim was immobilized as he choked to death, trapped inside the shell of his no-longer-functioning body. Trimble looked curiously into the man's eyes and saw the panic there. What Trimble had always wondered, in his scholarly way, was whether the victim of curare poisoning went mad with fear before dying. Looking into the security guard's eyes, he thought the answer was yes.

Trimble eased the man down into a seat, so he was still in a way guarding this private box. Then the professor looked down
at the auditorium from his vantage point. The seats below were completely filled, while would-be audience members still clogged the aisles and the space at the back of the auditorium. That wasn't supposed to happen. The seats had supposedly been precisely allocated. But with the presidential staffs of three countries doing favors for friends, they had overbooked. The floor was a solid carpet of people.

Onstage the show was just getting started. A staff person came out and checked the podium and microphone. There was a bulletproof plastic shield in front of the podium, as always. From this vantage point Don Trimble could see the three presidents in the wings, chatting for a moment as they awaited their entrance.

The professor's watery blue eyes hardened. A vein at his temple began to pulse. Even his flaky pale skin seemed to be melting away, revealing sharper features. Trimble wasn't in disguise, but he was shedding the look of indecision he'd worn for years.

But Trimble didn't stay where he was standing. The box wasn't his destination. It was too obvious, too John Wilkes Booth. Trimble went back out into the small hallway outside and found the even more secret staircase that went higher.

Behind another nondescript door, this staircase was so tiny he had to turn sideways to go up it. At the top of the stairs was a small catwalk, a space for lighting. The professor walked briskly to a panel on the opposite wall, a panel that looked like the others, but when the professor put a tiny key into a hole two feet above it the panel dropped open. Inside was a sniper's rifle.

Trimble quickly assembled the rifle, including its silencer, while listening and watching. On this catwalk he could stand up straight, but barely. Banks of small spotlights threatened his head at every step. He had a perfect view of the stage, including the wings if he moved to either side. This workspace had been built when the building was originally put up a hundred years ago, when a student would have to position these spotlights by hand. Everything was automated now, but the space remained.

Someone from the president's staff came out onto the stage, took the podium, and did a little preliminary throat-clearing, introductory remarks to which no one listened. The crowd's noise grew even louder. Closer at hand, Professor Trimble heard what he'd been listening for: footsteps coming up those narrow stairs.

This time he wasn't subtle and didn't do the befuddled-professor look. No time. The Secret Service agent's eyes hadn't had time to adjust. The professor knew that if he stood still he'd be almost invisible in the gloom of this small space.

Sure enough, the agent in his black garb stuck his head up, peered around, then said into the air, “All clear. I'll check on Stanley again and be back. Craig out.”

As soon as “Craig” was off the air, Professor Trimble shot him. It was a perfect shot, right in the throat, making the man mute before killing him. The agent gasped for air, fell to his knees, then rolled over and didn't move again.

Trimble checked his watch. There wasn't much time now. That death would bring other agents to check on the missing one within minutes. But they'd all be preoccupied right now, because the President of the United States was taking the stage.

He strode boldly across—“bold” was the new watchword in the White House—unaccompanied for the moment by the other presidents or any of his own staff. The audience applauded, which was less a sign of approval than gratitude that the show was starting, and the President gave one broad wave. His face remained serious, though.

Trimble moved into position. From up here he could send a bullet either over or around that plastic shield. In moments he would make history in a way the Circle never had. Nor would they have approved. That's why a new Circle had been needed. One that was not only decisive but prepared to act. Not dropping hints any more, not even subtly guiding others to kill. Once in a while a bolder move was needed. Don Trimble had believed that for a long time before he realized there were others who thought as he did. Once he'd been invited into the inner circle, he'd joined with alacrity.

Their inner security was so tight he wasn't even sure who the other members were. As with the larger Circle, each member operated fairly independently. So Trimble had been on hand in Salzburg, knowing there was a plan afoot and ready to help out. But as soon as Jack Driscoll had shown up there, Trimble had been afraid things would go awry, as they obviously had. Trimble had quietly slipped away before the end, knowing there would be a next act.

This one he had set up on his own. He had all kinds of contacts in the diplomatic and academic worlds. It hadn't been very difficult to get early word of what the President was planning and where the announcement would take place. The location had been perfect for Trimble, who could find a colleague at nearly any college in America who would be willing to designate him a visiting professor.