Gabriel's Stand (42 page)

As Snowfeather was thanking Dr. Owen for his remarks, Berker was furtively fondling the canister in her purse, reaching for the concealed arming key. Helen went on. “For the many other thousands who have given their lives, counted and uncounted, named and un-named, may the following one hundred names stand for every brave soul who died in this conflict. The gravity of indelible sorrow was in Snowfeather's face as she continued reading the list.

“Jenny Ryan,

“Bishop Alan Gardiner,

“Isaac Kahn,” Snowfeather stopped, gathering her composure, then she resumed.

“Vincent Marconi,

“Fat Fox Lindstrom…”

Finally, the biotoxin canister was armed. Berker allowed her right gloved hand to feel along its side, gently touching the nozzle at the top. For optimum results, she would first need to place the canister directly under her seat, then reach down and break the tab. Her gloves would delay the toxin's absorption just long enough to allow her to sit up. She had selected a posture that would allow her to slump when the toxin overcame her.
No sense causing premature alarm,
she thought
. Don't want anyone to get away. But will Snowfeather come down from that podium in time? The elevation could save her.

So Berker suppressed her impulse to immediate vengeance, and decided to wait a bit longer.

Max Cahoon stepped away from the monitors and slowly scanned the aisles until he had a clear view of the old woman he had seen on the screen. …
Row seven, in the center, gotta be her. Why is she fiddling with her purse? What is wrong with this?
Max was standing in the North transept—the left side from the audience perspective—peering around a corner.
Gotta get a closer look. Cautiously he walked down the pews, seeking a better sightline. If I can just see her face. Why won't that old guy move back?

There!
Her makeup job was extreme.
Almost like a clown,
Cahoon thought. Her clothes, though obviously expensive and tailored, were ill fitting. Good! The old man had suddenly leaned back in his pew and Cahoon—who was now even with her row—got a clear view of the woman's profile.

A hand touched Max on the shoulder. He glanced to his left and was startled to see a glowering Secret Service agent. Max excitedly pointed at the woman. “That old woman is a ringer!” His whisper was loud enough to turn heads. The woman was trying to pull something out of her purse.
This is not good,
Max thought. At that instant, he noticed something shiny in her hand.
What the hell?
Without thinking, Cahoon pulled away from the agent and shouted, “HEY, BERKER!”

Shocked faces turned in his direction. The woman visibly flinched.
Gotcha, Berker!
Cahoon launched himself across the pew, scrambling out of the agent's reach, trampling on feet, climbing over knees, lunging past the frightened old man.

Max barreled into Berker and the Secret Service agent followed, trying to snag and restrain this lunatic reporter. Almost simultaneously, the three nearest Secret Service agents converged on the trouble spot.

——

Along the deep purple ocean, a gray cloud turned red and began to brighten. The wind stirred white caps all along the horizon, the storm gathering strength just the sun's disk rose under the black clouds.

“Damn!” Dornan exclaimed. “Look at that crowd shot. There! Look! Agents are running. There's trouble in the seventh pew. DAMN IT! I should have been there! Where is High Tree?”

“Who?” Ken asked.

Ken turned around in alarm, just as the screen went blank. “Uh, oh,” he said.

“Oh my God,” Elisabeth shouted.

“What? What??” Josh asked, clinging to his mother's legs.

“The transmission stopped. Where's that satellite phone?” Dornan barked.

“Sorry, it's in the den!” Ken said.

“GO!”

Ken Wang was already running.

——

At the first sound of trouble, one agent, weapon out, blocked the space between President Smith and the commotion, while another pressed the President down in the pew. Dr. Owen slid away from the agent in his aisle, turned toward the noise, his eyes narrowing. Gabriel stood, also turning to look back, keeping one hand on his wife's shoulder.

“DOWN!” Gabriel shouted as several more guns were drawn.

Snowfeather was still standing at the pulpit, her wide gray eyes scanning the scene below. A Secret Service agent ran to the top and tried to pull her down. She stood like a small, sturdy tree, her eyes locked on the drama below.

Cahoon and Berker had toppled into the aisle; Berker's right hand was still gripping a shiny object partly hidden in her large purse. Max was gripping her by the left arm as she fell. The first agent, who had launched himself across the seventh row, grabbed for her exposed wrist and missed. As Berker squirmed free from Cahoon, another agent, standing in the aisle, managed to pull the purse away from her. But Berker rolled away, still gripping the canister.

“Get that damned can away from her!” Cahoon shouted. He could see Berker's fingers closing on the nozzle.

One nearby agent bent down and seized her wrist, squeezing and twisting. Cursing unintelligibly, Berker squirmed and sank her teeth into his forearm, drawing blood. She failed to break agent's grip, but her free hand was struggling to reach the top of the canister.

A new agent then kicked, his foot connecting neatly with the side of the canister. It snapped from Berker's hand, spun in the air, then bounced into the aisle, rolling toward the rear under the pews, like a self-propelled toy. Berker's wig slipped, exposing her shaved head. She was spitting and snarling like an animal.

“Don't touch the canister!” Cahoon shouted.

The crowd scattered to the sides, leaving Berker, three Secret Service agents and Cahoon in the aisle a few feet away from the rolling canister.

Gabriel's Indian honor guard, four tall men dressed in subdued but conspicuous, tribal garb, had moved into separate positions in the side aisles, scanning the room, while Gabriel, Smith Senior, and Alice were huddling behind a cordon of Secret Service agents in the north transept. While As President Smith was being spirited out an emergency exit, all four members of Gabriel's honor guard had drawn bows and stepped back in an attempt to get a sightline to Berker. Dr. Owen was standing in the aisle, staring at the scene, until a Secret Service agent pulled him toward the door.

High Tree had taken up a position with the optimum sightline to the agent nearest the canister, and watched as the man crept up on the object. The man peered down under a pew. He stared at the can of hair spray nestled there as if it were a snake.

“The nozzle at the top is intact!” he shouted. “No sign of gas.”

At this, High Tree had redirected his attention to the first agent who was busy three aisles away, busy trying to cuff the squirming Berker. The agent was in an awkward position, knee pressed into her back, blood running down his forearm. “Got her!” he shouted. He stood, gun drawn, his foot pressed into her back. Blood was running down his forearm.

Cahoon was still sitting in the aisle, panting. “It's a bio-toxin!” he yelled, as three more agents arrived. Cahoon pointed in the direction of the can. “THAT CANISTER IS LOADED WITH A FUCKING BIOTOXIN! IT'S THEIR M-O! And that is Berker, herself,” he said pointing.

“Who is this guy?” one agent asked, pointing down at Max who was squirming in the aisle with both arms pinned by a large agent.

“Cahoon. Max Cahoon. The Times!” Cahoon shouted.

“Quiet. I wasn't talking to you.”

“Just leave the can where it is!” another agent said.

“CLEAR THE AREA!” It was the agent in charge shouting from the nearest doorway. A chaotic mass exodus followed. NO GUNFIRE IN THIS SPACE! The agent in charge shouted. We might have a flammable agent here. NO SPARKS”

Sirens sounded in the distance. Cahoon started to get up. “Cuff him,” the nearest agent said. The large agent released his grip.

“Thank you,” Cahoon muttered. “Just get me the hell away from here!”

As Cahoon was being frog-walked from the cathedral, the agent in control of Berker was momentarily distracted. He had greatly underestimated his suspect's strength. When he allowed his foot to slip from her back, Berker, still not cuffed, immediately seized the moment, spinning around. She kicked the agent in the groin. Then, with sudden demonic energy, she charged over the nearest seats and scrambled directly toward the agent who was standing near the canister, her arm snaking out within grasping distance of the nozzle.

High Tree coolly deployed his military spec bow and arrow. He aimed and released the obsidian-bladed arrow in one preternaturally swift movement, just as Berker picked up the canister and was beginning to twist…

The scalpel-sharp arrowhead pierced Berker's cervical vertebrae below her skull, and breached her spinal cord. She immediately went limp, like a headshot rabbit.

The canister slowly rolled away from Berker's inert form.

When it stopped, there was an eerie moment of silence. High Tree looked at the agent nearest his target, nodded, and slipped his bow back in its shoulder case.

“Don't move a muscle until the bomb squad gets here,” High Tree said. “If you'll excuse me, I'm going outside to get some fresh air.”

Twenty minutes later, Fred Loud Owl was standing on the grass outside the cathedral holding the heavy Sat-Phone, cradling the receiver to one ear. “Everyone is fine,” he said. “I think everyone got out unhurt.” The limousines bearing the rest of guests and their Secret Service escorts were queued up to be driven away under guard. Police and EMT vehicles had turned the Cathedral lawn into a parking lot. Yellow tape blocked the main cathedral entrance.

“Sir,” an FBI agent said, “I need you to move

Loud Owl nodded, and started walking slowly away, still pressing the phone against his ear. Fred seemed to be studying the grass under his moccasins as he talked. “Elisabeth? It's crazy here. Yes. John is safe with the Secret Service. He left with the President. Helen and Gabriel were in the very next car. I'll have him call. Okay.” Loud Owl cleared the police cordon, still talking. “Yes. Yes. It was some kind of last ditch thing, using a poison aerosol… Yes, they say it was Berker, dressed up like some Swiss diplomat. Nope. None of that nasty stuff got out of the canister. Tell Dornan that High Tree stopped Berker with an arrow to the neck. Look—I've got to go. Who do I return this contraption to? Fine. No problem.” Fred ended the transmission and looked up. Four television cameras and a crowd of reporters closed in on him.

“What happened in there?” a reporter asked.

“Who were you just talking to?”

“What is your name?”

Loud Owl shrugged, and kept walking.

Moments later all the media mavens and functionaries were herded behind a police tape line. A phalanx of police and agents emerged from the cathedral, carting a stretcher flanked by two EMTs with an oxygen bottle and plasma drip. The bizarre form of a bald woman was visible beneath a blue sheet. She was almost face down, her head was wedged between two supports, her mouth covered by an oxygen mask.

As the procession turned, there was a collective gasp from the spectators. The vane end of a hunting arrow could be clearly seen protruding from the back of Berker's neck, just under her bald skull.

Rumors that some terrorist archer had tried to kill a Swiss diplomatic attaché were quickly quelled later that day, when embassy staff found Hilda Traumen's corpse, naked and crumpled in her office closet.

——

Deputy White House Press Secretary Garner speaking at 11:50 P.M.: “Good evening. It has been a long day. There were no fatalities from today's attack. The President, Vice President, the other public officials and guests are being medically examined as a precaution, but there were no serious injuries. President Smith expressed his profound gratitude for the heroic actions by all security personnel. Suspect Louise Berker has been transferred to a medical facility where she is being sustained on life support for the time being. She is non-responsive and appears to be in a ‘vegetative state.' The Attorney General is reviewing the matter of her prosecution. No questions, please. President Smith will make a full statement at tomorrow at 4:00 P.M. Thank you.”

——

An hour later, the sun's orange light was boiling just below the water line. Ken stood against the railing looking at the screen sideways while Dornan poured a mug of chocolate for Josh. A Sat-Phone was resting on an empty chair.

“Are you sure it wasn't the feds?” Ken asked.

Dornan looked back from the sunrise. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that news report. Who really killed those Directorate people they just found? The Smith Administration?” he asked.

“It was definitely not the new government. I heard that Longworthy turned against the Directorate at the end. And when they found about it, he was the unlucky recipient of Gaia's Kiss. He was in Walter Reed, hanging by a thread, last I heard; he may have died. Evidently none of the Sisters was confident that Berker's suicide mission could actually change the government. So the remaining members of Directorate decided to return to Mother Earth to avoid arrest. I guess it was quite a scene in that coven in Manhattan. Imagine the Sisters, huddled in a circle, all dead. The note said, ‘Back to Gaia'. Apparently they had recruited a ringer for Berker to make the number six just to throw off the FBI, in case she got away.”

“Six?”

“The would-be assassin who shot John was one of the seven.”

“Right. So, is it finally over? Really over?” Wang asked,

“You heard Dad,” Elisabeth said. “Bad ideas never die. They just go into remission.”

“What's remission, Mommy?”