The Trojan Sea (31 page)

“Her motorcade turned around and is heading your way,” came the answer.

Shanker looked toward the road. The couple holding the Cuban flag were standing next to the curb. Then he saw it. They were handcuffed together. He never hesitated. “Follow me!” He led the charge, heading straight for the couple as the Gray Eagles converged on him like a collapsing amoeba. The man holding the flag looked up as the woman’s free hand reached for his neck. In the distance Shanker heard more gunfire as the Secret Service agent and the park ranger ran into the street, motioning people to clear the road. Unfortunately, the mass of people leaving the ceremony effectively blocked any exit. The line of cars came to a halt as Secret Service agents set up a human shield while other agents tried to clear a path through the crowd that was running away from the gunfire.

Shanker was puffing hard and had almost reached the couple when the man collapsed, dragging the woman to the ground. He saw a knife in her hand. At first it didn’t make sense. Then he saw the blood gushing from the man’s neck. She had cut his throat. “He’s got a bomb!” the woman screamed as she pulled open the man’s coat. Shanker skidded to a halt at the sight of the wires connecting the vest pockets. “He hit the timer when he saw you!” She sawed at the man’s wrist with the knife.

More gunfire coming from the direction of the White House filled the air. Shanker grabbed the flag and threw it away. He started to lift the body. “Help me!” he shouted. Two Gray Eagles grabbed the body and lifted. “The grave,” Shanker shouted. They scrambled for the grave site with their grisly burden, dragging the woman after them. “Everyone down!” Shanker shouted. “Take cover!” The uniformed Secret Service agent was running toward them, his weapon drawn.

The men reached the grave and threw the body in. But the woman, still attached by the handcuffs, almost went in after it. Shanker pulled her back as they fell to the ground beside the grave. The woman’s arm dangled over the side as the Secret Service agent loomed over them. Shanker reached into the grave and pulled on the handcuffs, bringing the man’s hand to the edge. “Shoot the chain!” he yelled. The agent hesitated. “Shoot the fuckin’ chain!” Now the agent reacted and placed the muzzle of his gun against the connecting links of the handcuffs. He fired once, and the woman rolled free. Shanker came to his feet, pulling her with him. “Run!” The agent grabbed the woman, and they ran from the grave just as the ground erupted in a volcano of flames and dirt.

Shanker lay on the ground and tried to breathe. He sputtered and sucked in a gulp of air. But an acrid stench from the explosion made him cough. He came to his hands and knees, still sputtering. He shook his head, driving the cobwebs away. The Secret Service agent lay on the ground next to the woman, who was sobbing loudly. Four men in dark suits rushed up, submachine guns at the ready. One spoke into his whisper mike, and Shanker was vaguely aware of the president’s motorcade driving past.

“Is she okay?” Shanker asked.

There was no answer. The uniformed Secret Service agent slowly stood, his knees weak. “Colonel Stuart, you just may be a goddamn hero.”

Newport News

Martha Stuart was glued to the TV set as she surfed from channel to channel, trying to discover what was behind the cryptic phone call from her husband. He had told her not to believe what she saw on TV and that he was okay. As a result, it took a long time to piece together the complete story. On CNN a reporter was speaking in front of a wrecked car with the White House in the background. “In a well-timed maneuver, the two would-be assassins drove this car through a police barricade and south on Seventeenth Street, which had been cleared to expedite the president’s return to the White House. When the assassins crossed E Street, the car slowed, and one man dove out with a submachine gun. He came to his feet and fired indiscriminately into the crowd, killing over twenty bystanders. Because the car accelerated ahead, initial speculation is that the gunner was a diversion designed to create confusion and draw the attention of the police and Secret Service.”

Martha switched channels to NBC. A very upset woman reporter was standing at the newly dedicated monument. Her hands were shaking, but her voice was calm and measured. “The presidential motorcade had just left the dedication ceremonies and was headed toward the White House when gunfire broke out. The motorcade immediately reversed course and headed away. But the press of people running from the gunfire impeded its progress.”

Click. Martha changed channels to Fox News at the White House. The Fox White House correspondent was standing in front of the West Wing. “The White House press secretary has just released a statement confirming that President Madeline Turner was not hurt and is safe in the residence with her family. When asked why the delay in leaving the dedication ceremony when the shooting erupted, the press secretary replied that the president had ordered the driver to proceed cautiously through the crowd and not hurt anyone.”

Click. Back to CNN, where the same reporter was still talking in front of the wrecked car. “A quick-acting Secret Service agent used his car to ram the assailant’s car, stopping it here, well before the president’s motorcade arrived. The driver jumped out with an AK-47 and fired. The Secret Service agent then returned fire and killed him.”

Click. She turned to CNC-TV where her favorite reporter, Liz Gordon, was standing beside a fresh crater behind the new memorial. “Two other assassins, a young man and woman waving a Cuban flag and handcuffed together, attempted to block the presidential motorcade as it headed this way. As the man was wearing a vest wired with explosives, my sources suspect it was a suicide mission. We are still not sure what a group of veterans were doing here, but they had dug a grave and were conducting a mock funeral for some purpose. When their leader, a retired Colonel William Stuart, saw the two assassins, he attacked them and, realizing that the man was wired with explosives, dragged him and the woman to the grave and threw the assassin in. He managed to free the woman from her handcuffs before the bomb exploded. She is now in custody.” Martha stared in amazement at the screen.

Liz Gordon paced off the hole dug by the explosion. “Judging by the size of the crater, the man was wired with enough explosives to destroy every car in the motorcade.”

Click. Martha cycled to the cable channel where Shanker’s favorite political commentator was holding forth with his usual bombast. “Wake up, America! Why were the assassins waving a Cuban flag? It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out who was behind this attempt on the president’s life. Once again it raises the old question of who was behind Lee Harvey Oswald and the assassination of JFK? How much longer are we going to cave in to the liberal left wing and their slavish adulation of Fidel Castro?”

Martha punched him off with a sigh of relief when a car pulled into the driveway. She hurried to the door. A dark-suited man was holding open the rear passenger door of a black limousine as Shanker climbed out. The man shook Shanker’s hand and, then, slowly, Shanker walked toward his wife, his body protesting in pain at every step. Martha waited at the door. Her arms were folded across her ample breasts, and her face a soft reflection of all she was. When he reached the door, they stood there looking at each other and not saying a word.

“I suppose I’ll never hear the end of this,” he finally groused.

Tears filled her eyes. “I’m so proud of you,” she murmured, taking his hand and leading him inside.

The White House

Lieutenant General Franklin Bernard Butler stood against the side wall in the cabinet room early Tuesday morning and read the initial report. It was hot out of the copying machine, and he was surprised by the amount of detail so early in the investigation. “Interesting,” he murmured, rereading a particular section three times. It was the one thing he didn’t want to think about, much less see in a report detailing a conspiracy to assassinate the president of the United States. He looked around and mentally checked off the men and women filing into the room. Every high roller in the nation’s law enforcement and intelligence communities was in the room, and he was the lowest-ranking person present. He leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. This was going to be a very interesting meeting. The door opened, and Sam Kennett, the vice president of the United States, walked in. Mazie Kamigami Hazelton, the national security adviser, was right behind him.

Kennett stood beside the president’s empty chair. “I cannot tell you,” he began, “how thankful I am not to be sitting in this chair.” He looked around the room with a steady gaze. “What happened yesterday at the dedication ceremony will not happen again.” Every head in the room nodded in agreement. “Mazie, it’s all yours.” He sat down.

Mazie stood at the end of the table. “I don’t think I need to remind you that exactly eight weeks ago today the president narrowly escaped an assassination. The fact that an attempt was made yesterday tells me we’re in deep trouble.” She glanced at her notes. “As of now, we have identified the three dead assassins: Luis Barrios, Francisco Martínez, and Eduardo Pinar. We also have in custody one Sophia James, who cut Pinar’s throat. She claims she was a hostage held by the three men, and so far her story checks out. The FBI is still investigating other details she provided, and there’s more to come. But according to James, the men were members of a secret Puerto Rican cell called the ‘Group.’”

“Mrs. Hazelton,” the director of Central Intelligence said, “we rolled up and rendered that bunch of loonies last August.”

“Well,” Mazie said, “apparently they’re back.”

“Why the Cuban flag?” Sam Kennett asked.

“We’re checking that out,” the director of the FBI replied. “But we think it was part of their cover.”

“That’s dumber than dirt,” a voice said.

“The initial interrogation of the James woman,” the director of the FBI answered, “indicates we’re dealing with three imbeciles. God only knows what they were thinking. But for now we’re assuming nothing. Also, given their level of support, we’re confident they were part of a larger organization, or at best a splinter group of Puerto Rican nationalists.”

“So they were not Cuban?” Kennett said.

“To the best of our knowledge,” Mazie replied, “no.”

Butler took a deep breath. Better to raise the issue now, at the earliest possible moment. He raised his hand. “Mrs. Hazelton?”

“For those of you who don’t know Bernie Butler,” Mazie said, “he’s one of the Pentagon’s ‘Boys in the Basement’ and a survivor of more successful covert intelligence operations than I care to remember.”

“Don’t discount the Cuban connection,” Butler said. Mazie arched an eyebrow, an unspoken “why?” “During the Angolan operation in the 1980s,” Butler explained, “we tagged a batch of Semtex plastic explosive with a trace element that left a unique acrid stench when it exploded. We then sold it to the Cubans operating in Angola as a way to identify who was doing what to whom and to make a little money. But they never used it.” He held up his copy of the initial report. “That Semtex showed up yesterday.”

Washington, D.C.

Samuel B. Broad glanced at the summons to appear in family court and dropped it with a flick of his fingers. “I’m not that well versed in family law,” he told Stuart. “But I do happen to know the Honorable Loretta Calhoun, who will be hearing your case.”

“Is that good or bad?” Stuart asked.

“It all depends on what you do,” Broad replied. “First, don’t go in with a lawyer. She doesn’t like lawyers. Take witnesses, but not your father—she doesn’t like men like him. Too macho. Think about calling this Hank Langston, the pilot of the homebuilt aircraft that’s on the videotape. By the way, did that story ever air?”

Stuart shook his head. “Hank spoke to the TV station. I don’t know what he said, but they canceled it.”

“Good. Also take your mother. But whatever you do, do not try to deny your wife access.”

“What about Jenny’s mother?”

“Sidestep that issue,” Broad counseled. “Argue that the current agreement is in your son’s best interests and doesn’t need changing.”

“What about my case? How do I sidestep that?”

“That is a problem,” Broad allowed. “I would suggest you argue there are developments that may cause the case to be dropped.”

“What developments?” Stuart asked.

“I’d suggest you supply some.”

“I don’t even know where to start looking,” Stuart replied.

“Always follow the money trail.”

“Nothing I do has anything to do with money. So how can there be a trail?”

Broad shook his head. “I’d suggest you take another look. If that fails,
cherchez la femme
.”

Stuart shook his head. “Yeah, right. Get serious.”

Broad gave him a long look. “I’m being very serious, Colonel Stuart. Take away money, sex, and drugs and I’d be out of a job.”

“Cherchez la femme,”
Stuart muttered to himself as he walked toward his car. He snorted and stepped off the curb to cross the street. A car came around the corner, making a right-hand turn against the light, and forced him to jump back. But his reactions were a little slow, and the car grazed him, pushing him back against the curb. He sat down hard, hurting his tailbone as the car accelerated away. “Son of a bitch!” he shouted. “Not again!” He tried to get the license number, but mud and snow hid the last four digits. He watched as the car disappeared around a corner. Much to his surprise, a police car surged past in pursuit, its siren wailing and lights flashing.

“You’ll never catch him,” Stuart said to himself. He waited for the police car to return and confirm the obvious. “Just another coincidence?” he said.
I’ve got to stop talking to myself,
he thought. He didn’t have to wait long.

“Sorry, sir,” the young patrolman said. “I lost him.”

“I’m not surprised,” Stuart said.

“Did you get the license number or make?”

“Only the letters ALO. Virginia, I think. A red compact sedan.”

“That’s enough,” the policeman said. “We’ll get him.”

“Yeah, right.” Stuart gave him his name, address, and phone number before returning to his own car. He wondered if the cop were even old enough to drive. “
Cherchez la femme,
my ass.”

Dallas

“Thank you, Matt Drudge,” L.J. said for perhaps the hundredth time as her fingers flew over the keyboard in her search of every major news channel on the Internet. Thanks to a highly placed leak, the cyberspace columnist had broken the story that the explosives used by the assassins had come from Cuba. The capital had exploded with the news, and the media, not to mention Congress, were in an uproar. Finally. L.J. couldn’t contain her jubilation and hit the intercom. “Lloyd, are you free?”

“I’ll be right there,” Marsten answered.

“I’ll come to your office,” she told him, needing the activity to calm down. She forced herself to walk slowly as she made her way past the secretaries in the outer office. “Good morning, Shugy,” she sang. “How’s Billy?”

“Oh, Miss Ellis,” the secretary replied, “not good. He’s had another stroke.”

L.J. stopped. “How bad?”

“He’s worse than before,” she answered.

“I’ll send some flowers. Where’s he staying?”

“He’s still at home.”

“Billy needs to be in a full-time nursing home,” L.J. said. “The company will pay for it.”

“Thank you, but we’re managing. Besides, you’ve already done so much, I can’t ask for more.”

“Shugy,” L.J. said, “yes you can, and we’re going to help. Now, go find him a nursing home. And don’t come back until you do. Hear?”

“Thank you, Miss Ellis.”

The look on Shugy’s face was all that L.J. needed. “There’s nothing to thank me for. Go take care of your husband.” She gave the secretary an encouraging nod and walked into Marsten’s office, closing the door behind her. “Have you heard the latest about the terrorists?”

Marsten’s face was grim. He had to tell her. “They were the same lot who blew up RTX Farming Supplies.”

L.J. made the connection immediately. “And the woman?”

“She’s the agent I hired to get on the inside. She’s very bright, so I don’t think she’ll reveal that connection.”

“Because of the murdered waiter,” L.J. added. Marsten nodded in confirmation. L.J. paced the floor. “But sooner or later they’ll trace her to ARA—and that means us. Sooner, I imagine, than later.”

“True,” Marsten replied. “But they’ll never connect us, specifically me, to the James woman. I was very careful about that.”

L.J. breathed in relief. “So when the FBI does come knocking, we keep our story simple. We had hired ARA as part of our new security plan to protect ourselves from terrorists. We may have been paying for their services, but we had no idea what was going on.” She sat down.
What will happen when the FBI starts to take a hard look at us?
she thought.
Will it mean the end of the elephant?
A feeling of unbelievable loss swept over her. It was more intense than when she had lost her parents. The decision tree she had so carefully constructed flashed in her mind.
What’s changed?
She had only lost the option of using the Puerto Ricans to blow up a drilling rig to collect insurance money to cover their losses. But thanks to the Puerto Ricans and Sophia James, there was now a connection to Cuba, a totally unexpected development she could exploit. They were still in the game. “Actually, I think we’re ahead in all this.”

Marsten was with her. “Because of the Cuban connection.”

“Precisely. Castro is being blamed for it, and Congress is in an uproar.” She fell silent. Long experience had taught Marsten to be patient. He poured himself a cup of tea and waited as she reexamined every aspect of her game plan. It was decision time. Either cut their losses now or go for the elephant. It wasn’t really a decision.

“Lloyd, I think we have a very narrow window of opportunity here.”

Marsten had been running his own decision matrix while waiting for L.J. and was not surprised. “To secure the concessions.” It wasn’t a question but a statement of fact. He also understood the hazards as well as L.J. But he couldn’t help himself. Not since Eritrea. “Whatever we do, atleast one major must get on board,” he told her.

“I imagine that both BP and Exxon are burning with rumors.”

“But do they want part of the action?” Marsten asked. “They haven’t exactly been chasing us down the street and throwing money at us.”

“They will. It’s just a matter of convincing them we have the concessions. Then they’ll move fast to get in on the ground floor.”

“So how do we do that?”

“First, exercise the options on the drilling ships. I want three positioned in southern Florida and ready to move at a moment’s notice.”

“Why three?”

“At forty thousand dollars a day per ship, the industry will know we’re serious.”

He pointed out the obvious. “But that doesn’t give us the concessions.”

“That’s why you’re going back to Cuba.”

“To scare my contacts silly, no doubt.”

It was a classic understatement, and she laughed, breaking the tension. But more important, they were on the same wavelength. “They know you’re from Dallas, right?” He nodded in answer. “So you tell them that because of this assassination attempt on Maddy Turner, a witness has come forth who links Castro to Lee Harvey Oswald and the JFK assassination.”

“They know that’s not true,” Marsten said.L.J. shook her head. “The question is not if it’s true or not, but what does the U.S. believe? Emotions are running extremely high in the States over what happened to Turner. Tell your contacts that the Castro-JFK link is the straw that will break the camel’s back, and it means invasion. So if they want to save Cuba, they had better act now. Otherwise Maddy Turner will be choosing the next government of Cuba.”

“The FBI will eventually sort all this out,” he said.

“That’s why we have to act now. Hopefully we’ll have the concessions and be drilling by the time the penny drops and the Cubans realize what’s happened. But by then our people will have benefited from all the turmoil and be running Cuba. A win-win situation for everyone.”

“Everyone but Castro,” Marsten added. “My cover story for going to Cuba this time?”

“A combination of business and romance,” L.J. replied. Marsten arched an expressive eyebrow at her. “You’re exploring business possibilities,” she explained. “In the event the embargo is lifted.”

“Not that,” he replied. “The other.”

She laughed. “Well, men your age have been known to become involved with young foreign girls.”

“I’ll leave as soon as I take care of Duke.”

An image of the old dog lying at the feet of Shugy’s husband flashed in L.J.’s mind. “I’ll take care of him,” she promised.

“One thing,” Marsten cautioned. “We do have a cash-flow problem. Hold off on the drilling ships as long as possible.”

“Speaking of cash flow,” she said, “take lots of money. I’d suggest gold Krugerrands.”

Newport News

The Gray Eagles tugged the Lightning out of the hangar and positioned it on the taxiway for engine start while Shanker and two Air Force sergeants ticked off a checklist. Hank Langston stood in his hangar bay and watched the preparations, impressed with the thoroughness of the ground crew. “You boys are really serious about this,” he said to Stuart.