Power Curve (32 page)

“I can sprinkle some dust around. He may sneeze once or twice, but none of it will stick.”

She took his hand in both of hers and turned it over. Slowly, she continued to draw little circles in his palm with a fingernail, her face radiant. “The senator says it’s time. He’s going to nail her hide to the wall.”

“What a charming fellow,” Shaw said. He pulled his hand back and reached for the wine. “I have to make a phone call.”

Liz Gordon was waiting in Jeff Bissell’s car when Shaw’s limousine pulled up to the entrance elevator in the Watergate’s garage. She watched as he got out and used his key to call for the elevator. The limousine pulled away as the elevator doors swooshed close behind him, a steel
and aluminum curtain wrapping him in safety. Liz waited. The elevator doors opened, and Shaw stepped out. She started the car and pulled up. “I got your message,” she said as he got in. “Where’s the bimbo?”

“Does it matter?” Shaw replied. She drove slowly out the exit. “The children were rootin’ around in the basement,” he said. The “children” were his staff. “You know how kids are. They found some interesting mementos.”

“Whose basement?” she asked.

He handed her a manila envelope. “Mr. Samuel Kennett’s.”

“Mr. Clean?” She pulled over, switched on the dome light, and dumped the contents in her lap. She quickly scanned the documents.

“Now don’t go hyperventilating on me,” he said, his southern accent back in place. “It does lead to some unexpected places.”

“Absolutely fascinating.”

“I thought you’d like it.”

“Patrick, what can I say?”

“Strictly deep background, nonattribution.”

“Of course,” she replied. Then, “I hate being alone Sunday mornings.”

“Unbelievable headache, darlin’. And tomorrow’s gonna come too early.”

“It’s already tomorrow,” she told him.

“Quella O’Malley is not news,” Ben, Liz’s cameraman, complained. It was late Sunday morning, and they were on the Mall with the Washington Monument towering behind them.

“She will be today,” Liz replied. She checked her hair one last time. “Here she comes.” The squat woman waddled across Constitution Avenue, challenging the light traffic. A line of people followed her, all carrying signs and chanting.

“Damn,” Ben muttered. “She’s bringing half the crowd from the park.”

“Anything to get away from that drum,” Liz said. O’Malley waved and marched up for her interview, the
conquering hero leading her troops in a victory parade. “Good morning, Mrs. O’Malley,” Liz called.

“It’s Ms. Liz,” O’Malley corrected. Ben hit the Betacam’s record button and like most interviews with the feisty woman, they were off to a rocky start. Liz endured her comments about sacrificing innocent children to sharks and made a mental note to edit out that part of the interview. “We speak for the innocent and the poor who cannot speak for themselves,” O’Malley proclaimed. “Without us there is no justice in this country.”

“Speaking of justice, Ms. O’Malley, how long have you been a paid informer for the FBI?”

O’Malley laughed and followed the classic rules of politics: Never knuckle under, never justify, always attack. “I know I’m right when they resort to smear tactics.” She turned to the crowd and raised an arm, pointing at the White House. “They claim we’re working for the FBI,” she shouted. “Come on, everybody. Get out your pay stubs and let’s compare wages.” A titter of amusement rippled through the crowd. “Equal pay for equal work!” The laughter grew louder, and O’Malley beamed with success.

“Reliable sources,” Liz said, “claim you supplied the evidence that led to the Philadelphia Neighborhood Action Group being indicted for embezzlement and misuse of public funds.”

Again, O’Malley laughed. But it rang with a forced resonance that jarred the crowd to silence. “Sam Kennett was mayor then. That bastard was always out to get me. How many times have I proven him to be a liar?”

Mistake!
Liz thought.
You shouldn’t have made the connection to Kennett
. “To be exact, Mrs. O’Malley, never.” She handed O’Malley a folder. “These are extracts of your bank account in the Bahamas. They go back a number of years, and the deposits that are circled were made in your name by the Intercity Regional Planning Commission. The IRPC was an FBI sting operation working with Mayor Kennett to clean up Philadelphia.”

O’Malley glanced at the contents of the folder and tore the pages to shreds. She was careful to stuff the remnants into her pockets. “Lies, total lies,” she shouted. She
turned to the crowd for support. “This is libel, Gordon, and you’re going to hear from my lawyers.”

“I think you mean slander,” Liz corrected, “and truth has always been the defense to slander. I have more copies—in case your lawyers need them. By the way, some of the deposits are very recent. You’re a wealthy woman, Mrs. O’Malley. And speaking of pay stubs, did you declare this income on your tax return?”

“Who the hell do you think you are?” O’Malley sneered. “
Sixty Minutes?
”

“No, Mrs. O’Malley. I’m Elizabeth Gordon, and this is CNC-TV News.”

A rock arced out of the crowd and hit Liz in the back of the head knocking her to the ground. The action froze, and while everyone was focused on the reporter, Ben ejected the video cassette, jammed it into his coat, and slapped a blank cassette into the Betacam in case the crowd went for the camera. He stepped over Liz’s prostrate form and panned the crowd, swinging the heavy camera back and forth like a club while he filmed them. Two men and a woman from the crowd rushed him, and he froze, certain he was going down next. But they skidded to a stop, turned, linked arms, and stood in front, a human barrier protecting Liz. “Is she OK?” the woman shouted.

Ben lowered his camera and bent down. Liz’s eyes were open, and she was holding the back of her head. Her hand was bloodied, and she would need stitches. “Did you get it all?” she asked.

“Got it all,” he replied.

“She’s OK,” the woman standing above them yelled to the crowd.

“Where’s Fireplug?” Liz asked.

Ben stood and looked around. The crowd was dispersing, and Quella O’Malley was gone. “She’s finished in this town,” he promised, helping the reporter to her feet.

For Bender, coincidence was simply a matter of probability. He loved the mathematical formulas that quantified reality and predicted the odds of two or more objects or events converging in space and time. In real-world terms, it could be devastating, like when a fellow Thunderbird
had experienced a bird strike during an airshow and crashed. But more often than not, it was a harmless encounter, like meeting the vice president in a Capitol elevator. “Been testifying before a committee?” Sam Kennett asked.

“Not this time,” Bender replied. “I was bringing a group of Senate staff members up to speed on Okinawa. I heard the bell calling for the vote. How’d it go?”

Kennett had been shepherding a piece of legislation through the Senate and, as president of the Senate, had cast the tie-breaking vote. “We made a few more enemies,” Kennett said. “But it’s one more step toward tax reform.” They rode the elevator in silence to the garage. “Ride back with me,” Kennett offered. “We can compare notes.” Bender accepted and told Chuck Sanford, the Secret Service agent waiting for him, to take his staff car back to the White House garage.

Sanford held the vice president’s limousine door before joining the other agent, Wayne Adams, in Bender’s staff car. “Join the procession,” Sanford said. Adams fell in behind the vice president’s limo and followed them out of the garage.

“Did you see Liz Gordon’s interview with O’Malley last night?” Kennett asked. “Liz really did a number on her.”

“It’s satisfying when it happens to the bad guys,” Bender said. “For a moment, I thought the mob was going berserk. I take it Liz wasn’t hurt.”

“She’s fine,” Kennett replied. “The mood of the crowd did take a strange twist. I’ve never seen anything like it. Those people are deeply opposed to our policies, but at the same time they’re rooting for the president, probably because she’s a woman. Right now, my gut feeling tells me sentiment is swinging in our direction.”

“Too bad we can’t help it along,” Bender said.

The vice president thought for a few moments. “Maybe we can.” He hit the intercom to the front seat. “Tom, drop us off at Lafayette Park. We’re going to press the flesh.”

A worried Secret Service agent turned around and looked at him. “Is that wise, Mr. Vice President?”

“No one shoots at a vice president,” Kennett said. “It’s a complete waste of ammo.”

Sanford and Adams heard the radio call from the vice president’s limousine reporting the unplanned stop at the park. “That’s dumber than dirt,” Adams complained. “Ranger knows better than that.” Ranger was the code name the Secret Service had given the vice president.

“Move,” Sanford ordered. “They’re going to need backup. Double park. Over there.” The two agents abandoned the staff car next to a traffic warden and sprinted across the street into the park. Their breath misted in the cold air, and their thick parkas blended with the crowd. Sanford spoke into the whisper mike under his sleeve cuff, reporting their position. They slowed and moved through the crowd, trying to blend in and not draw attention. Rather than close in on the vice president, they circled behind him as he moved slowly through the park. “Have you got the general in sight?” Sanford asked.

“Behind Ranger and to your left,” Adams replied. “He’s talking to some kids.”

“Bender’s a regular Pied Piper,” Sanford said.

Both agents were scanning the crowd, taking the emotional pulse of the people around them. At the same time, they were looking for the misfit, the person who was slightly out of step, moving against the grain or hovering too close. While their antennae were finely tuned to the people around them, they had to remain cool and remote. The beating drum didn’t help, and they could feel its insistent call to action. “The crowd’s edgy,” Adams said.

“We’ll be OK if Ranger terminates now,” Sanford said. On cue, Kennett turned and moved back toward Bender and the waiting limousine.

“Over there,” Adams said. “Behind the general. The woman. Red and purple coat. Green knit cap. Dark hair. Short, heavyset.” Both agents focused on Quella O’Malley, who was on the outskirts of the crowd, moving parallel to Kennett. She was staring at the vice president and was oblivious to the people around her. “She’s lost it,” Adams said. He walked quickly toward Bender, trying to close the distance without disturbing the people around him.

Sanford spoke into his whisper mike. “We’ve got a possible. Subject is Quella O’Malley. She’s at Ranger’s ten o’clock, twenty feet, moving with him. The general is between them. Ranger is approaching the general now.” The six Secret Service agents in the park responded with precision and speed. Adams sprinted for Bender, who was still between O’Malley and Kennett. The four agents detailed to Kennett collapsed around him like a cocoon while Sanford raced for O’Malley. She saw Adams first when he was less than ten feet from Bender. She reached into her coat and pulled out an Army Colt .45-caliber automatic. She thumbed the hammer back and held the heavy weapon with both hands.

Adams barreled into Bender and knocked him to the ground. On the way down, Adams reached out and pulled an eleven-year-old boy under him as O’Malley pulled the trigger. The bullet hit Adams square in the back, shattered his spine, deflected slightly to the left, and tore into his aorta, completely severing the artery. The recoil knocked O’Malley back, and she jerked at the trigger a second time as two agents sandwiched the vice president with their bodies. Sanford crashed into her as she fired the third time. His left arm came up and struck the Colt in an upward motion. The bullet arced harmlessly over the White House and fell into the Potomac, over a mile away.

It was over, and the screaming crowd scattered like dry leaves rushing before the strong winter’s wind. Three shots had been fired. The first bullet had killed a thirty-eight-year-old Secret Service agent, the second round hit Sam Kennett, and the third bullet was never found.

Later, forensic experts from the FBI testified that an incredible sequence of coincidences was involved. By knocking Bender to the ground, Adams had cleared a field of fire for O’Malley. The recoil from the first round had knocked O’Malley back, and she had almost dropped the gun before regaining her balance. Chuck Sanford was only a blur in her peripheral vision as she raised the gun in panic. She never remembered pulling the trigger the second time or hearing the gun fire. The bullet had ricocheted off the pavement and passed under the left arm of the agent who was at Kennett’s back and had wrapped his
arms around the vice president. The bullet struck the vice president’s left arm just above the elbow. If O’Malley had fired a fraction of a second earlier, the bullet would have hit the agent’s arm. If she had fired a fraction of a second later, Kennett would have been totally shielded. As it was, coincidence had opened a gap less than four inches square for less than a second when O’Malley’s bullet was there.

A videotape shot by a bystander recorded Bender on his knees comforting an eleven-year-old boy before turning him over to his distraught parents. Then he slowly removed his topcoat and covered Wayne Adams, the agent who had taken the bullet for him. He stood erect, waiting for the paramedics to arrive. The cold wind tore at him as he stood guard. In the background, the wail of sirens blended with the beating drum as the vice president was rushed to a hospital.

Jackie Winters was on the cellular telephone as the five cars drew up to the entrance to the Bethesda Naval Medical Center. “The vice president is still in the operating room,” she told Turner.

“I thought he was only hit in the arm,” Turner replied.

“Apparently the bullet entered his chest,” Winters said. “Mrs. Kennett is in the waiting room.” She rattled off the personal details about Barbara Kennett and their children. “She’s said to be very stable in a crisis.”

“I wish I knew her better,” Turner said as a Secret Service agent opened the car door. She trotted up the steps. Bender and Shaw were inside the main doors waiting for her. “Robert, are you OK?”