MIND FIELDS (32 page)

“Then go back to the Secret Service guy.  What’s his name?”

“Fleurian.  Jacques Fleurian,” Kincade muttered with disdain.

“Talk to him.  Make him understand.”

“Not a chance.  Me and him go way back.”

Sandi knew not to pursue it any further.  “So what, then?”

“I’ve got a friend who can get me the plans to Windsong Meadows.  Maybe I can figure out where the strike is going to take place.”

“Good idea, but you might make someone suspicious if you start asking around for those plans.  Why not just get it off of the Internet?”

“You can do that?”  Richie didn’t spend any more time on the Net than he had to.

“Sure.  Easy.”

Sandi, along with Daisy’s help, pulled up the topographical map of the golf course. Kincade spent the next couple of days studying it, trying to figure out exactly where on that course James O’Grady was going to carry out his plan to kill the president.  There was no ‘if’ anymore, not in Kincade’s mind, anyway.  They were going to force Harold Bradley to kill the President of the United States, and it was going to happen next Saturday at Windsong Meadows.

Chapter twenty four

  The third fairway at Windsong Meadows was custom-made for President Huntley Forsyth – literally.  In a moment of marketing genius, Eddie, the groundskeeper, had convinced the owners of the club to let him modify the third fairway to accommodate the president’s famous slice.  He turned it into a two-hundred yard, par three hole, with the straight and narrow fairway yielding to a gradual dog-leg toward the right, beginning one-hundred and thirty-five yards from the tee and ending in a short, straight run to the green.

  “OK, boys, watch and learn.” 

The president had played this hole at least a dozen times before, each time with the same result.  It was the one hole in the D.C. area where he didn’t have to fight his natural slice.  He took his practice swing as the other members of his threesome looked on.  Chief of Staff Harold Bradley had already taken a two stroke lead over the president, and led Senator Stanton Cole by one, but Forsyth was confident he would pick up some ground here; he always did on the third tee at Windsong.

The two elder statesmen and two young Secret Service men looked on in silence as President Forsyth eased into his backswing, and then accelerated the head of the club through the ball in a picture-perfect swing.  His head followed the ball’s low trajectory, and he smiled broadly as the flight path mirrored the contour of the fairway’s dog-leg, disappearing behind the trees.  He didn’t have to see his ball land to know that it was on the green.

“Home field advantage, gentlemen.”  The president smiled as he walked past his two colleagues and slipped the three-wood into his bag.  He never used a caddy.  One of the things that he enjoyed about golfing was getting away from White House protocol.  It was one occasion during which he didn’t have to have someone trailing at his heels, other than the obligatory Secret Service, of course, but he had long ago learned to ignore their presence.  It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate them, he did, but until he learned to ignore them, he could never really relax.

“Not bad, Mr. President.  Not bad.”  Harold Bradley walked up to the tee, determined to defend his lead.

___

Detective Kincade made his way onto the course from a side street that abutted Windsong Meadows.  Access was strictly limited when the president was on the course, much to the chagrin of the club members.  Kincade hid his car in the low-lying brush of the dense forest that surrounded Windsong Meadows, and crept silently through the woods.  He was sure that today was the day Anderson had planned to activate the nanobots in Mr. Bradley’s head, that today was the day the president was to die.

The bushes rustled as he made his way toward the forested area that skirted the third green.  Kincade knew virtually nothing about golf, but the president’s propensity to ace the third hole at Windsong was common knowledge; it’s the kind of story that the press loves. Eddie, the groundskeeper, had achieved his goal of garnering publicity for the club.

Richie Kincade counted on the president being the first man to the green, and hoped he would have a chance to get there in time to warn him.  Even if those blithering idiots in the president’s security detail had dismissed Kincade’s hunch about the BNI plot to kill the president as self-aggrandizing paranoia, he hoped that President Forsyth would be more reasonable.  The tough part was getting the president’s ear.  Richie knew that he’d look even more crazy popping out of the bushes at the third green, but there was no choice.  Today was the day; Richie was sure of it.

___

  Hap Wilson had been with the president’s security detail for over a year now.  He was hired in part for his knowledge of golf courses.  Hap had been a semi-pro golfer after a stint with the Marines.  He realized after a few months on the tour that he’d never be able to make much of a living hacking away against more skilled players, and when his buddy Marty Zelig at the Secret Service contacted him about joining the president’s detail, he figured it was a no-brainer.  Marty explained to Hap that the president loved to spend a good deal of time on the golf course, and that they needed someone in the Service with an intimate knowledge of how golf courses were laid out and run. Hap jumped at the opportunity.

  “Damn,” Bradley grumbled as his ball bounced down the fairway, “shanked it.” 

  “Gotcha,” gloated President Forsyth.

  “It ain’t over till it’s over, Mr. President,” said Stanton Cole, still waiting to tee off.

  “Yeah, yeah.  Take your best shot, Stan.  I want to get out there and see how close I am to the flag.”

  Bradley muttered to himself as he walked over to the golf cart.  He shoved the club into his bag in disgust and plopped down in the cart.

  Senator Stanton Cole strode up to the tee.  He had been around too long to take this game seriously and nothing bothered his swing anymore, not even the swagger of a young president.  He eyed the fairway, tucked his head, and lifted his club with the grace that came from thousands of practice swings and an uncanny ability to shut out the surrounding world for a brief moment.
Thwak
.  The ball lofted high over the trees on the right edge of the fairway.  It would put him in position to reach to green with one easy pitch.

  The president put an arm around him as he walked back to the cart, gracious in the knowledge that the beautiful drive would still be positioned well behind his own.  “Picture-perfect swing, Stan, picture-perfect.”

  “Thank you, sir.”  He’d grant the president his condescending demeanor for now.  By the ninth hole, he would be back on top with the president saying how he almost had him this time.  It always ended that way.

  Hap Wilson and junior agent Dennis McLaughlin were standing by the president’s golf cart, wearing black golf shirts and trousers.  They weren’t the typical black suits that Secret Service men were notorious for wearing, but it made them conspicuous none-the-less.  Nobody would have a hard time figuring out which men at the tee were Secret Service. 

  The earpiece attached to Hap’s black plastic sunglasses beeped softly, and he reached up and gave it a tap.  “Wilson here,” he said just loud enough for the microphone concealed in the frames to pick up.

  “Crowley, Captain.”  Jay Crowley was a junior agent assigned to perimeter patrol.  “There’s a late model blue Ford Taurus parked along Ridgeway Road.  I followed some tracks in the grass and found it just inside the woods.  Looks like it’s been intentionally camouflaged with some leaves and branches.”

“How long’s she been there, Crow?”

“The engine’s still warm.  Couldn’t be more than fifteen, twenty minutes.”

“Get some back-up and follow his tracks in if you can.  I’ll take it from this end.”

“Right, sir.  Crowley out.”

Hap pulled out his palm-tracker.  It displayed a map of the golf course and the location of each agent by GPS.  He narrowed the search to Crowley’s beacon.  “Shit,” he said, realizing that the car in the woods was just a short distance from the third green.
I sure hope this is just some asshole paparazzi with a camera.

Hap approached the president as he was walking past his two tee partners, still gloating from his perfect slice down the third fairway.  “We’ve got a problem, sir.”

___

Richie Kincade heard the men rustling in the leaves as they entered the woods, and knew that his car had been spotted.  No matter, he was already tucked in by the third green, well camouflaged between a small grouping of bushes.

Hell of a shot
, he said to himself as he eyed the president’s ball teetering just an inch from the cup.

He held his breath, listening for both the oncoming agents trudging through the bushes and the sounds of the president’s two golf partners hitting up to the green.  He hoped their aim was good.  It would be kind of embarrassing to be found lying there in the woods unconscious, struck in the head by a stray ball. 

___

Agent Wilson explained the situation to the president.  “Better to keep you gentlemen here until we have the situation in hand, sir.”

“Ah, hell, it’s probably just some kid lookin’ for a picture to sell to the tabloids.”  President Forsyth continued toward the cart.  “Nothin’ you guys can’t handle. I’ve got great confidence in you, Hap.”  He hopped into the cart.

“Thank you, sir, but I must insist …”

“Now look, Hap, I know you’re just doing your job, but you’re not going to cheat me out of my birdie.  Hell, who knows, maybe I even got a hole-in-one this time.”  He smiled and the cart lunged forward as he pushed the accelerator.

“Christ, stay with him, Denny.”

Agent McLaughlin nodded and hopped onto the back of the cart.

This was the part of the job Hap could do without.  He didn’t mind dealing with the riff-raff or even the thought of throwing himself in harm’s way to save the president, but these egos …  “Man, what a jackass,” he muttered. He stopped abruptly and glanced around. 
Did I say that out loud?  Shit, I need a vacation.

___

Kincade had a twenty minute start on the agents.  They were still at least ten minutes behind when the threesome reached the green.

“Darn!” he heard the president yelp as he spotted his ball.  “One more inch!”

Kincade smiled.  It was nice to see the president acting like a real person.  This was the first time Richie had seen him other than on TV, an icon of America.

He stayed nestled in his hiding place, still not sure exactly what he was going to do.  You don’t just go jumping out of the bushes and running up to the President of the United States.  Not unless you have a death wish, anyway.  He just knew that he needed to do something.  He could feel it in his bones.

The president was focused on his ball, Kincade was focused on the president and the Secret Service agents were focused on trying to find Kincade.  Everyone was so focused, in fact, that no one noticed the glint of light reflecting off a pair of binoculars on the roof of the clubhouse overlooking the third green. 

Trace McKnight had made his way into the clubhouse the evening before, and was camped out on the rooftop terrace.  He knew the clubhouse would be deserted on a day reserved for the president’s threesome.  He had come in on foot in the dark of night.  The routine security checks would begin in the morning, and were not particularly hard to evade if one knew their routines.  The president had played here at least a dozen times before, and the sequence of the security sweep at Windsong was always the same.  A few casual questions to the right staff members at the club revealed enough information to tell McKnight that the rooftop terrace would never be checked. Its entrance was always locked, except during special club activities. 
And this would surely be a special activity,
mused Trace, thinking about that wonderful little tidbit of information the bartender had passed on to him one Sunday afternoon following a round of golf with JT Anderson.

The nanobot activation transmitter would easily work at this distance from the third green, and with field glasses, it would be simple to see when Bradley would be in position to take the shot.  One simple code sequence entered into the transmitter would start the cascade of events that would propel BNI into the future. 

McKnight peered through the field glasses, and patiently waited for the threesome to take their places on the third green.  He hadn’t counted on the angle of the sun, which was reflecting off his lenses directly toward the third green.  But fortunately, he had a very determined Richie Kincade unwittingly running interference for him.  No one noticed as McKnight kept vigil over the scene.

___

President Forsyth waited patiently by his ball as Cole and Bradley made their way to the green.  Much to his chagrin, they had each made it in two strokes.  The most he could hope to gain would be one stroke on each.

“About time, gentlemen.”

Bradley eyed the president’s ball, sitting near the lip of the cup.  “By all means, Mr. President.  Take a gimme.”

Senator Cole nodded his approval.  “Heck of a shot, Huntley.” Not many people called the president by his first name, but Stanton Cole and Huntley Forsyth’s relationship went way back, beyond the days of their lofty titles.

“No way, gentlemen.”  He strode up to his ball.  “But with your permission, I’ll clear the green for you.”  Without looking back for their consent, he lifted the flag out of the cup and laid it on the fairway, just off the green.  He knelt down behind his ball and eyed the terrain as if studying the slope of the green.  He then licked his thumb and held it up to check the wind direction, paused for a moment, shook his head, and then carefully placed one foot on either side of the ball to line up his shot.  He methodically took a practice swing as Cole and Bradley looked at each other and sighed audibly.

“Quiet now, gentlemen.”

“Now look here, Huntley.  I don’t care if you are the president …”

President Forsyth lifted his right hand toward them without taking his eye off the ball.  They fell silent.  He placed his hand back on the club and proceeded to sink the one-inch putt.

“Thank God,” Cole said.  “The suspense was killing me.”

Forsyth just smiled, pulled his ball out of the hole and went to get the flag.  Stanton Cole had overshot the flag wide to the right, and walked over to his ball after “admiring” the president’s shot.  As Forsyth placed the flag back in the hole and held it for Stanton Cole’s shot, Harold Bradley went to the cart, parked to the left of the green, to pull out his putter. 

It was just the moment that Trace McKnight had been waiting for.  He activated the nanobots in Bradley’s brain, which had been carefully programmed to guide the actions of the White House Chief of Staff for the next few moments. 

Harold Bradley went limp for a split second as he slid the putter into his bag.  He reached out with his left hand and steadied himself against the bag, quickly regaining his composure.  His next movements became mechanical as he slowly unzipped the ball pouch on the side of his bag and reached deep down to the bottom.  Devoid of any emotion, he pulled a loaded pistol out and slowly turned, pointing it in the direction of the president.

Hap Wilson was scanning the woods for signs of the intruder, who his men had failed to locate.

Richie Kincade, well camouflaged only about ten yards from the green, had been watching the proceedings intently.  He alone had noticed the glint of a reflection from the rooftop of the clubhouse, but it wasn’t enough to blow his cover for.  He could tell by the double reflection that it was binoculars and not a gunsight.  He would not risk giving up his position for what was likely to be nothing more than a Secret Service agent overlooking the scene.  When Kincade saw Harold Bradley pull the gun out of the bag, he couldn’t believe his eyes.  This was the White House Chief of Staff, for God’s sake, one of the president’s most trusted men.  He hesitated briefly, but then remembered the nanobots that had been placed in Bradley’s brain. 
So, they really
can
do it,
he thought to himself. His worst suspicions had been realized, and although this would exonerate him, it was little consolation.

Kincade jumped from the bushes, pointing at Harold Bradley.  “Look out, Mr. President!”