18
PROGRESS
Wellington had three men working for him. Each was an experienced investigator, accustomed to politically sensitive cases which demanded the utmost discretion. His job was to identify likely areas of field investigation, then to examine and correlate the information they returned to his office in the Justice Department. The tricky part was to gather the information without notice going back to the target of the probe, and Wellington correctly thought that that part of the task would be particularly difficult with a target like Ryan. The DDCI was nothing if not perceptive. His previous job had qualified him as a man who could hear the grass grow and read tea leaves with the best of them. That meant going slow ... but not too slow. It also seemed likely to the young attorney that the purpose of his investigation was not to produce data suitable for a grand jury, which gave him quite a bit more leeway than he might otherwise have had. He doubted that Ryan could have been so foolish as to have actually broken any law. The SEC rules had been grazed, perhaps bent, but on inspection of the SEC investigation documents, it was clear that Ryan’s action had, arguably, been made in good faith and full expectation that he had not violated any statute. That judgment might have been technical on Ryan’s part, but the law was technical. The Securities and Exchange Commission could have pushed, and might even have gotten an indictment, but they would never have gotten a conviction ... maybe they could have muscled him into a settlement and/or a consent decree, but Wellington doubted that also. They’d suggested it as a sign of good faith and he had answered with a flat no. Ryan was not a man to tolerate being pushed around. This man had killed people. That didn’t frighten Wellington in any way. It was merely an indicator of the man’s strength of character. Ryan was a tough, formidable son of a bitch who met things head-on when he had to.
That’s his weakness, Wellington told himself.
He prefers to meet things head-on. He lacks subtlety. It was a common failing of the honest, and a grievous weakness in a political environment.
Ryan had political protectors, however. Trent and Fellows were nothing if not canny political craftsmen.
What an interesting tactical problem....
Wellington saw his task as twofold: to get something that could be used against Ryan, and something that would also neutralize his political allies.
Carol Zimmer. Wellington closed one file and opened another.
There was a photograph from the Immigration and Naturalization Service. That one was years old—she’d been a child-bride in the most literal sense of the word when she’d first come to America, a tiny little thing with a doll’s face. A more recent photo taken by his field investigator showed a mature woman still short of forty, her face now showing some lines where once there had been the smoothness of china. If anything she was more beautiful than before. The timid, almost hunted look in the first photo--understandable, since it had been taken after her escape from Laos—had been replaced by that of a woman secure in her life. She had a cute smile, Wellington told himself.
The lawyer remembered a classmate in law school, Cynthia Yu. Damn, hadn’t she been quite a lay ... same sort of eyes, almost, the Oriental coquette....
Might that be it?
Something that simple?
Ryan was married: Wife, Caroline Muller Ryan, M.D., eye surgeon. Photo: a quintessential Wasp, except that she was Catholic, slender and attractive, mother of two.
Well, just because a man has a pretty wife ...
Ryan had established an educational trust fund.... Wellington opened another file. In it was a Xerox copy of the document.
Ryan, he saw, had done it alone, through a lawyer—not his regular lawyer! A D.C. guy. And Caroline Ryan had not signed the papers ... did she even know about it? The information on his desk suggested that she did not.
Wellington next checked the birth records on the newest Zimmer child. Her husband had been killed in a “routine training accident” ... the timing was equivocal. She might have gotten pregnant the very week her husband had been killed. Then again, she might not have. It was her seventh child—eighth? You couldn’t tell with those, could you? Gestation could be nine months, or less. First kids were usually late. Later kids, as often as not, were early. Birth weight of the child ... five pounds seven ounces ... less than average, but she was an Asian, and they were small ... did they have smaller-than-normal babies? Wellington made his notes, recognizing that he had a series of maybes and not a single fact.
But, hell, was he really looking for facts?
The two punks. Ryan’s bodyguards, Clark and Chavez, had mangled one of them. His investigator had checked that out with the Anne Arundel County Police Department. The local cops had signed off on Clark’s story. The punks in question had long but minor records, a few summary probations, a few sessions with youth counselors. The cops were delighted at the way things had turned out. “Okay with me if he’d shot that worthless little fucker,” a police sergeant had said with a laugh recorded on the investigator’s tape cassette. “That Clark guy looked like one very serious dude. His sidekick ain’t much different. If those punks were dumb enough to hassle them, hey, it’s a tough world, y’know? Two other gang members confirmed the story the way the good guys told it, and that’s a closed case, man.”
But why had Ryan set his two bodyguards on them?
He’s killed to protect his family, hasn’t he? This is not a guy who tolerates danger to his ... friends ... family ... lovers?
It is possible.
“Hmm ...” Wellington observed to himself. The DDCI is getting a little on the side. Nothing illegal, just unsavory. Also out of character for the saintly Dr. John Patrick Ryan. When his lover is annoyed by some local gang members, he simply sics his bodyguards on them, like a mafia capo might do, as a lordly public service that no cop would ever bother fooling with.
Might that be enough?
No.
He needed something more. Evidence, some sort of evidence. Not good enough for a grand jury ... but good enough for—what? To launch an official investigation. Of course. Such investigations were never really secret, were they? A few whispers, a few rumors. Easily done. But first Wellington needed something to hang his hat on.
“There are those who say this could be a preview of the Super Bowl: Three weeks into the NFL season, the Metrodome. Both teams are two and oh. Both teams look like the class of their respective conferences. The San Diego Chargers take on the Minnesota Vikings.”
“You know, Tony Wills’s rookie season has started even more spectacularly than his college career. Only two games, and he has three hundred six yards rushing in forty-six carries—that’s six-point-seven yards every time he touches the ball, and he did that against the Bears and the Falcons, two fine rushing defenses,” the color man observed. “Can anybody stop Tony Wills?”
“And a hundred twenty-five yards in his nine pass receptions. It’s no wonder that they call this kid the Franchise.”
“Plus his doctorate from Oxford University.” The color man laughed. “Academic All-American, Rhodes Scholar, the man who singlehandedly put Northwestern University back on the map with two trips to the Rose Bowl. You suppose he’s faster than a speeding bullet?”
“We’ll find out. That rookie middle linebacker for the Chargers, Maxim Bradley, is the best thing I’ve seen since Dick Butkus came out of Illinois, the best middle linebacker Alabama ever turned out—and that’s the school of Leroy Jordan, Cornelius Bennett, and quite a few other all-pros. They don’t call him the Secretary of Defense for nothing.” It was already the biggest joke in the NFL, referring to the team owner, Dennis Bunker, the real SecDef.
“Tim, I think we got us a ball game!”
“I should be there,” Brent Talbot observed. “Dennis is.”
“If I tried to keep him away from his games, he’d resign,” President Fowler said. “Besides, he used his own plane.” Dennis Bunker owned his own small jet, and though he allowed others to fly him around, he still maintained a c
urrent commercial pilot’s license. It was one of the reasons the military respected him. He could try his hand at almost anything that flew, having once been a distinguished combat flyer.
“What’s the spread on this one?”
“Vikings by three,” the President answered. “That’s just because of the home field. The teams are pretty even. I saw Wills against the Falcons last week. He’s some kid.”
“Tony’s all of that. A wonderful boy. Smart, marvelous attitude, spends a lot of time with kids.”
“How about we get him to be a spokesman for the antidrug campaign?”
“He already does that in Chicago. I can call him if you want.”
Fowler turned. “Do it, Brent.”
Behind them Pete Connor and Helen D’Agustino relaxed on a couch. President Fowler knew them both to be football fans, and the President’s TV room was large and comfortable.
“Anybody want a beer?” Fowler asked. He could not watch a ball game without a beer.
“I’ll get it,” D’Agustino said, heading for the refrigerator in the next room. It was the most curious thing about this most complex of men, “Daga” thought to herself. The man looked, dressed, walked, and acted like a patrician. He was a genuine intellectual, with the arrogance to match. But in front of a TV watching a football game—Fowler watched baseball only when his presidential duties required it—he was Joe Six-Pack, with a bowl of popcorn and a glass of beer, or two, or three. Of course, even here, his “anybody want a beer?” was a command. His bodyguards could not drink on duty, and Talbot never touched the stuff. Daga got herself a Diet Coke.
“Thank you,” Fowler said when she handed the glass to her President. He was even more polite at football games. Perhaps, D’Agustino thought, because it was something he and his wife had done. She hoped that was true. It gave the man the humanity that he needed above all things.
“Wow! Bradley hit Wills hard enough that we heard it up here.” On the screen, both men got up and traded what looked like an emotional exchange but was probably a mutual laugh.
“Might as well get acquainted fast, Tim. They’ll be seeing a lot of each other. Second and seven from the thirty-one, both teams just getting loosened up. That Bradley’s a smart linebacker. He played off the center and filled the hole like he knew what was coming.”
“He certainly reads his keys well for a rook, and that Viking center made the Pro Bowl last year,” the color guy pointed out.
“Great ass on that Bradley kid,” Daga pointed out quietly.
“This women’s lib stuff is going too far, Helen,” Pete said with a grin. He shifted positions on the couch to get his service revolver out of his kidney.
Günther Bock and Marvin Russell stood on the sidewalk just outside the White House grounds among a crowd of a hundred or so tourists, most of whom aimed cameras at the executive mansion. They’d arrived in the city the previous evening, and tomorrow they’d tour the Capitol. Both wore ballcaps to protect them from what still felt like a summer sun. Bock had a camera draped around his neck on a Mickey Mouse strap. He snapped a few photos, mainly to blend in with the rest of the tourists. The real observations came from his trained eye. This was a much harder target than people realized. The buildings around the White House were all large enough that sharpshooters were provided with excellent perches concealed by the stonework. He knew that he was probably under surveillance right now, but they couldn’t have the time or money to compare his likeness to every photo they had on their books, and he’d taken the trouble to alter his appearance enough to dispense with that worry.
The President’s helicopter flew in and landed only a hundred meters from where he stood. A man with a man-portable SAM might stand a good chance of taking it out—except for the practical considerations. To be there at the right time was much harder than it seemed. The ideal way would be to have a small truck, perhaps one with a hole cut in the roof so that the missileer could stand, fire, and attempt his escape. Except for the riflemen who certainly perched on the surrounding buildings, and Bock had no illusions that such snipers would miss their targets. Americans had invented sharpshooting, and their President would have the services of the best. Doubtless some of the people in this crowd of tourists were also Secret Service agents, and it was unlikely that he’d spot them.
The bomb could be driven here and detonated in a truck ... depending on the protective measures that Ghosn had warned him about. Similarly, he might be able to deliver the weapon by truck to the immediate vicinity of the Capitol Building, perhaps at the time of the President’s State of the Union Address ... if the weapon were ready on time. That they weren’t sure of, and there was also the question of shipping it here—three weeks it would take. Latakia to Rotterdam, then transshipment to an American port. Baltimore was the closest major port. Norfolk/Newport News was next. Both handled lots of containerized shipping. They could fly it in, but airborne cargo was often X-rayed, and they could not risk that.
The idea was to catch the President on a weekend. It almost had to be a weekend for everything else to work. Everything else. Bock knew that he was violating one of his most important operational precepts—simplicity. But for this to have a chance of working, he had to arrange more than one incident, and he had to do it on a weekend. But the American President was in the White House only about half the time on weekends, and his movements between Washington, Ohio, and other places were unpredictable. The simplest security measure available to the President of the United States was the one they used: his movement schedule, as well known as it might have been, was irregular and its precise details were often closely held. Bock needed at least a week’s lead-time to set up his other arrangements—and that was optimistic—but it would be nearly impossible to get that seven days. It would actually have been simpler to plan a simple assassination with conventional weapons. A small aircraft, for example, might be armed with SA-7 missiles ... probably not. The President’s helicopter undoubtedly had the best infrared jammers available....
One chance. You get only one chance.
What if we are patient? What if we simply sit on the bomb for a year and bring it into the country for the next State of the Union speech? Getting the bomb close enough to the Capitol Building to destroy it and everyone in it should not be hard. He’d heard—and would see tomorrow—that the Capitol was a building of classical construction—lots of stone, but little structural ironwork ... perhaps all they needed was patience.
But that wouldn’t happen. Qati would not allow it. There was both the question of security and the more important consideration that Qati thought himself a dying man, and dying men were not known for their patience.
And would it work in any case? How well did the Americans guard the areas where the President’s presence was predictable well in advance? Were their radiological sensors in the area?
You’d put them there, wouldn’t you?
Only one chance. You’ll never be able to repeat this.
At least one week’s advance notice or you’ll never achieve anything beyond mass murder.
Must be a place without the likely presence of radiological sensors. That eliminated Washington.
Bock started walking away from the black iron fence. His face did not betray the anger he felt.
“Back to the hotel?” Russell asked.
“Yes, why not?” Both men were still tired from their traveling anyway.
“Good, wanted to catch the ball game. You know, that’s about the only thing Fowler and I see eye to eye on?”
“Hmph? What’s that?”
“Football.” Russell laughed. “You know? Football. Okay, I’ll teach it t’ya.”
Fifteen minutes later they were in their room. Russell switched the TV to the local NBC channel.
“That was some drive, Tom. The Vikings had to convert six third-downs, and two of them required measurements.”
“And one was a bad spot,” President Fowler said.
“Ref didn’t think so.” Talbot chuckled.<
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“They’re holding Tony Wills to barely three yards a carry, and one of those was his twenty-yard break on the reverse that caught the Chargers napping.”
“A lot of work for three points, Tim, but they did get the three.”
“And now the Chargers get their chance at offense. The Vikings defense is a little iffy, with two of their starters out with minor injuries. I bet they’re sorry to miss this one.”
The Chargers’ quarterback took his first snap, faded back five steps, and hurled the ball toward his flanker, slanting across the middle, but a hand tipped the ball and it ended up in the surprised face of the Vikings’ free safety, who pulled it in and fell at the forty.
Bock found the game exciting in a distant sort of way, but almost totally incomprehensible. Russell tried to explain, but it didn’t really help very much. Günther consoled himself with a beer, stretching out on the bed while his mind rolled over what he’d seen. Bock knew what he wanted his plan to accomplish, but the exact details—especially here in America—were looking harder than expected. If only—
“What was that they said?”
“The Secretary of Defense,” Russell answered.
“A joke?”
Marvin turned. “Sort of a joke. That’s what they call the middle linebacker, Maxim Bradley, from the University of Alabama. But the real one owns the team. Dennis Bunker—there he is.” The camera showed Bunker in one of the stadium’s sky-boxes.
How remarkable, Bock thought.
“What is this Super Bowl they talked about?”
“That’s the championship game. They have a playoff series of the most successful teams, and the last one is called the Super Bowl.”
“Like the World Cup, you mean?”