The Next President (17 page)

Unless he got them first.

When the limo let J. D. off at the Refuge, after a good-night kiss from Jenny, it was only ten o’clock. During the week, showbiz people in L.A. were an early-rising community. Many of them had to be on their sets at dawn; others would be busy hatching their next deal not much later. These were facts of life for which the diva’s fundraiser had allowed.

The relatively early hour also allowed J. D. the time he needed to make a brief trip home to Santa Barbara without being missed.

He went to his bedroom and quickly changed into a pair of dark jeans and a navy blue sweatshirt. His spare sneakers were far too white for his liking, so he smudged them to a dull gray with ashes from the fireplace. The bloody clothes he’d burned that morning had been all but consumed. The last remnant was the scorched zipper from his pants. He pulled that from the fireplace and added it to the opaque plastic bag in which he’d put his blood-covered Nikes and the buttons from his shirt. He’d dispose of these items on his trip.

After a moment’s consideration, he decided to add Pickpocket’s Glock to the bag.

J. D. got the gun from the safe, dumped it in the bag, and put the bag in the trunk of the Lexus, under the floor panel with the jack. Then he lay down under the rear bumper of the car and carefully removed the bug that the crew cuts had put there. He’d leave it in the garage. He was hoping that his minders would still be tied up with their cover duties as Secret Service agents, and by the time they got back to him the presence of the bug would tell them that he was still at home.

As he drove away from the Refuge, though, he watched carefully for any sign that he was being followed. But his was the only car on the quiet residential streets of Santa Monica Canyon at that moment. He turned north onto Pacific Coast Highway, confident that he’d left unobserved.

The traffic on PCH was sparse. He settled into the right-hand lane and cruised at the speed limit. A light breeze off the ocean carried with

it a pleasant salty’ odor. To his right the looming bulk of the coastal hills crowded the road. Just beyond Malibu, his headlights picked up a warning sign along the road: ROCK SLIDE AREA, NEXT ?

MILES.

He’d driven the coast highway and seen that sign, and others like it, more times than he could remember. He’d seen TV clips of the giant boulders that earthquakes and rainstorms had brought tumbling down onto the pavement.

But he’d never really thought he was in any danger when he drove PCH.

He hoped his minders would be just as oblivious—right up until the moment he dropped a mountainside on their heads.

J. D. entered his darkened home in Santa Barbara. It felt more like he was revisiting a fading memory than a property to which he still held title. Fortunately for him, the house still held all the materials he’d need to make a bomb.

While PANIC had relied almost exclusively on firearms to carry out its work, and J. D. had used nothing but sniper rifles, the men had been required to attend briefings on other covert means to dispatch certain targets:

those who declined to present themselves to the unit’s crosshairs.

One such government-funded educational opportunity had been called Improvised Explosives. Included in the curriculum was how to build a blasting cap from bits of scrap hardware and three chemical compounds available at any drugstore. Also covered was how to make fuses, electrical and chemical timers, and radio-frequency detonators. Rounding out the course, the instructor taught them how to make very big bangs using such everyday items as aspirin, vinegar, window cleaner, dandruff shampoo, and even urine.

But J. D. didn’t need to work with such mundane materials. As a target shooter who hand-loaded his own ammunition, he had a more-than-adequate supply of gunpowder in his weapons vault. He intended to use all that remained of it for the job at hand.

Though he’d sat through the bomb-making course a very long time ago and didn’t recall that he’d been particularly interested at the time, he was able to remember everything he needed to know to build a substantial explosive device. As to how he’d detonate it, he decided on a radio-frequency trigger. To get the part he’d need for that, he went to his garage.

After he finished his work, he left the house and tried not to think that he might never return. He drove to Cabrillo Boulevard and parked. He walked out onto Steams Wharf, past the closed restaurants and shops.

He ignored the sign that said hard hats required beyond this point and strode to the end of the pier. He threw the bag with the Clock and other items into the ocean. He’d done the same thing not that long ago with his wedding ring.

He returned to the Lexus and, twenty minutes later, at a bend in the coast highway where there was a scenic overlook, he pulled off the road. He stopped in the darkest corner of the parking area. He got out of the car and scanned the adjacent beach to make sure no surfers or homeless people were camping out nearby. When he was sure he was alone, he ran across the highway.

He scrambled up the hillside. He had to climb no more than fifty feet to find a cluster of rocks he liked. Using his hands, he dug a hole in the loose dirt at the base of a large boulder and buried the bomb he’d made. The only part he left exposed was a wire that projected from the soil. The wire would serve as the antenna to receive the detonation signal. The transmitter was a device that no one would ever question even if they saw it: his garage-door opener.

Two minutes later he was back in the Lexus, returning to the Refuge.

Now that he’d baited his trap, all he had to do was lure his prey.

Friday, September 17, 2004

The political bombshell exploded early that morning, just in time to be the lead item on all the network morning news shows and to receive wall-to-wall coverage on the cable channels and the Internet.

Del Rawley had sex with a Communist!

Del Rawley was the father of an illegitimate son!

It was revealed that as a young man, Franklin Delano Rawley had traveled to Paris, France, to visit an expatriate uncle, Turner Rawley. While there, he’d met, slept with, and fathered a son by a woman named Sophie Moreau.

Mademoiselle Moreau, now a legislator in the National Assembly, was a longtime member of the Communist Party. Her son, Bertrand, was an architect who said he had no interest in politics. Yes, the young man said, his mother had told him who his father was, and though he’d never met him, he liked what he had read about him. He thought it was amusing that a Frenchman uninterested in affairs of state had a father who might become the president of the United States.

As if that wasn’t enough, Sophie Moreau, French Communist, endorsed the candidacy of Franklin Delano Rawley.

“He is easily the best man to be president,” she declared. Then she added, “And without a doubt he was the best lover I ever had.”

The only bit of political cover the story offered was that Mile. Moreau also told the world that she had made young Del Rawley leave her all

those years ago, when he had wanted to marry her, because she was sure they had different destinies, and no, until now he had had no way of knowing about Bertrand.

“It’s all about race, goddammit,” Baxter Brown said.

“The Communist angle is a smoke screen. The woman could be a Gaullist, but the fact that she’s white—” “And French,” Jim Greenberg interjected.

“The fact that she’s white,” Baxter repeated, “is the big scare tactic: Lock up your women, white folks, because if Del Rawley ever gets into the White House, look out.”

“Race is the big hammer,” Alita agreed, “but morality might be the monkey wrench. Until now we had a candidate who was squeaky clean, and that was what made a lot of people look past their prejudices or deny them altogether.

But if all I start hearing are questions about Del’s personal life, then we’ve got—” The press secretary bit her tongue as she looked up and saw the candidate in the doorway to the conference room of his suite. Jenny was with him.

They joined the other three members of the brain trust at the table. Del looked at each one of them in turn.

“When we talked the other day,” he said, “and I told you I didn’t have anything to hide, I honestly didn’t think about Sophie. I was eighteen, and back then, as she said, I would have married her in a minute. But now I can honestly say I haven’t thought about her in years… and I certainly didn’t know I have a son by her.”

Jenny had already heard the explanation; the others were nodding their acceptance of it.

“I’ve spoken with my wife,” Del told them, “and she wants to return to the campaign and be seen at my side.”

“Might not be a bad idea,” Jim Greenberg told him.

“The FBI hasn’t caught that sonofabitch who tried to kill me,” Del reminded him.

“Neither my wife, nor my children, nor my grandchildren will be exposed to any danger for my political advantage. I don’t want to hear another word about that.”

The candidate got up from the table and asked his campaign manager to come with him. She returned to the room a moment later. The other three were on pins and needles and demanded to know what Del had told her.

She sat, looked at each one of them, and said, “He’s considering

dropping out of the race. He told me he won’t say one word against Sophie Moreau regardless of her politics, and he wants to see his son Bertrand. Right now he’s going to spend a day or two with his family in Wisconsin.”

Baxter, Jim, and Alita absorbed the news in silence.

Jenny got to her feet and leaned forward with her fists on the table.

“I’m not going to let Del quit. Our country needs him. The media will be breaking down our doors any minute now for a response and we’ve got to be ready for them.”

“What are we going to say?” Alita wanted to know.

“I have no idea. But we’re going to come out swinging. And I’m going to think of a way to gut the incumbent if his people ever try anything like this again.”

“You still think old Ron Turlock is a straight shooter?” Baxter asked Jenny caustically, referring to the incumbent’s campaign manager.

She had no answer for him.

As far as J. D. had been able to tell, his minders hadn’t seen him return to the Refuge early that morning. So they shouldn’t know what he’d been up to.

He replaced the bug under the bumper of his car, went into the house, stripped off his clothes, and fell into bed.

His night’s work had given him some satisfaction, but he had far too many other problems for sleep to come easily. Or even grudgingly. Still, he had to have some rest soon or he’d be unable to function. Then he remembered the chloral hydrate capsules that the cabin attendant had given him on the flight from Milwaukee to Las Vegas. He took one and it conferred on him the blessing of three hours of dreamless sleep.

Which meant he was awake again before the sun rose.

The first thing J. D. did after showering and getting dressed was to retrieve Pickpocket’s laptop computer from the safe in the den. With it, he took the information the little thief had passed to him for establishing contact via cyberspace.

J. D. booted up the machine and, following instructions, went to a Web site called stickyfingers.com. The home page declared it to be a fan club for the Rolling Stones. One of its features was a trivia quiz about the band.

Answer a question right, Keith played a guitar riff for you; answer it wrong, Mick stuck out his tongue at you. Answer the question Pickpocket noted in his instructions with the password he provided and

you gained entrance to a private chat room in which you could communicate with the little thief.

Assuming he was still alive.

J. D.‘s first question addressed just that point.

John, did you make it?

J. D. waited for five minutes without getting a response. He carried the laptop into the kitchen and made coffee. When he sat down at the kitchen table he saw a reply.

He’s alive.

J. D. keyed in the question: Am I talking to Red?

Yes.

Do you know who I am? J. D. asked.

Yes.

How ;‘s he?

Doctors say serious but stable. After surgery.

Does he need any help with medical expenses?

No, but thanks. Thanks for saving him, too. The paper says you’re a hero.

J. D. hadn’t seen the morning paper yet. A shudder of relief passed through him that he’d gotten away before the cops had arrived, and that the cap and sunglasses he’d worn would keep him from being readily identified.

J. D. had a suggestion to make.

As soon as possible, consider moving John to another hospital. Under new identity.

An emoticon appeared on J. D.‘s monitor: :-) Then: Just what I had in mind. After a pause, Red added, Pickpocket told me to tell you: When he cloned that PCR for you, he made a second clone for himself—so he could backtrack the anonymous e-mail you received.

That bit of news snapped J. D.‘s head back like a solid uppercut. But the surprise lasted only a second. After all, he had been expecting the little thief to snoop on him.

Did he learn anything? J. D. asked.

The last hangman drawing you received was sent through the server of an Se?M bulletin board called lovelock. com Lovelock operates out of Fairfax, Virginia.

Right next to the PostMaster Plus in Arlington.

Right down the road from Langley, J. D. thought.

Red, will you be able to help me? I can pay.

You already have. The 20K, remember? Besides, John and I are already

fast friends—and you saved him. I feel like I owe you. Anything we find out, we’ll send to sticky fingers.

Then, for security purposes, Red gave J. D. a new password to use.

He’d just logged off when his phone rang. Vandy Ellison was on the line.

“We’re having a crisis here,” she said.

“Jenny asked if you can come in.”

The Secret Service watched the news like everyone else, and by the time Dante DeVito was summoned to meet with Charlie Clarke—the special agent who was really in charge of Del Raw-ley’s protection detail—he’d already dismissed the French-lover scandal as a political knifing and nothing more. DeVito knew his feelings were influenced by Rawley’s loyalty to him but, Jesus Christ, if politics was getting to the point where people could be held accountable for what they’d done as teenagers, then-The doors of the elevator in which DeVito was riding slid open, and just as he was about to get out, two guys talking to each other, paying no attention to him, tried to get on. DeVito shot the gap and almost knocked both of them ass over teakettle. They both caught their balance, but the looks they gave DeVito were decidedly hostile.