The Sentinel (42 page)

"You're responsible for people being killed. And I'm going to see that you pay for it."

"Oh, are you now? Well let me tell you something.

There is nothing you can do. You have nothing. You can't arrest me and you'll never be able to convince anyone of my guilt. Use your head. The best thing for you to do is join me. I will get you out of the country. I can see to it that you are taken care of for the rest of your life."

The faraway look in her eye was one Garrison had seen before, but he couldn't remember exactly when. Had it been when they'd been in bed together? Or was he imagining it?

"Eleanor, you're actually out of your mind. I pity you."

She stared at him during a long, uncomfortable silence. "Well, I guess there isn't much left to say, is there?"

She walked to the door, looked back at him, and then departed. He wanted to rush after her, to arrest her. He wanted to march her into the Oval Office and tell the President. But he knew it wasn't going to be that easy. Moving to the window, he watched her get in the limousine and depart.

Something hard touched the back of his head.

"Move and I'll shoot," Flanagan whispered.

Garrison went numb. Keeping the gun in contact with Garrison's head, Flanagan reached around and pulled Garrison's SIG-Sauer from its holster. He backed away cautiously, aiming a .38 revolver at Garrison. Flanagan was holding the gun with both hands.

"I should have known you'd have a key to the service entrance," said Garrison. "You have this place bugged, don't you? You had to keep tabs on me."

"Bugging the Watergate. Ironic, isn't it?"

"Getting me to go to the Sperling Finance Building so you could tie me to the Aryan Disciples. That's promising for a dummy like you."

Flanagan moved to the tape player and slid the cassette tape from the tape recorder. He dropped it in his jacket pocket.

"She and Wintergreen will eventually put you out front," said Garrison. "Can't you see that?"

"Turn around."

Garrison studied him carefully because his life depended on it. Flanagan was nervous. His gun hand was trembling and his lips were lacking color. Garrison assessed his chances for survival. Flanagan was about eight feet away, and if he rushed him he was going to get shot. For a split second Garrison imagined a bullet tearing into his flesh, but swallowing the pain, imagined surviving and being able to disarm Flanagan. But it was a dream; the kind of optimistic fugue he figured that victims of premeditated murder had had throughout the ages. If Flanagan had intended to simply arrest him, he would have handcuffed him.

"Wintergreen told you to kill me here, didn't he? So you could claim I'd been stalking the First Lady. Everyone will hear the gunshot. You'll never be able to get away. They have private security officers all over this place."

"I told you to turn around. Now!"

Garrison's mind raced and he turned slowly away from Flanagan. There was a narrow vertical mirror on the facing wall, and he could see Flanagan's image. Flanagan reached into his jacket pocket and took something out - a shiny cylindrical object that was about six inches long-a silencer. He began to screw it onto the barrel of the .38. Flanagan was going to shoot him. He had planned it.

Garrison whirled and ran straight at him, grabbing the gun. Flanagan tried to shoot, but Garrison slammed a right forearm across Flanagan's face and took him down to the carpet. Wrenching the gun away from him, Garrison shoved the barrel between his eyes.

"For a moment there I thought you were going to shoot me."

"No."

"Waiting to put a silencer on can be a real problem when you don't have a backup man, right, Gil? Now, get up."

Reaching to Flanagan's waistband, Garrison pulled out his own SIG-Sauer and scrambled to his feet. Flanagan came to his feet slowly, keeping his hands raised.

"I'll give you the money."

Flanagan's right eye was swollen and he looked confused, his eyes darting back and forth as if looking for some avenue of escape. Garrison moved behind him, lifting Flanagan's suit jacket to check for a backup gun. There was none. He took the handcuffs from Flanagan's belt and dropped them in his trouser pocket.

Garrison said, motioning to the dining table, "Sit down."

Flanagan sat. His face was red from exertion. "What are you gonna do?"

"Sit here and listen as you tell me what the hell is going on. You're going to tell me everything about the assassination plan. I know you have one. That's why you kept me alive. That's why she set me up here."

"There isn't any."

"She didn't promise you three million dollars for a college try. You have something planned right now."

"I don't know anything."

"You wouldn't have gone to the trouble of keeping me on ice here unless you had another assassination planned."

Garrison studied him for a moment. Then, being careful to keep his SIG-Sauer trained on Flanagan, he placed Flanagan's .38 on the table.

"What are you doing?"

Using one hand, Garrison slipped the silencer onto the barrel and with his other hand, kept the SIG-Sauer trained on Flanagan. With the silencer in place, he hefted the .38 in his left hand and aimed at Flanagan.

"I found a blasting cap in your garage and I want the plan. I'm not going to ask you again. I want it all, right now."

"I'm telling the truth. So help me. This isn't my thing."

Garrison aimed the .38 at the edge of the upper sleeve of Flanagan's jacket and pulled the trigger. With the powerful whoosh-thump of the silencer, Flanagan shrieked and whirled backward grabbing his upper arm.

"You shot me! You shot me!"

Garrison aimed at Flanagan's upper chest.

"The Kennedy Center," Flanagan said. "Wintergreen planted it. He told me to set the timer for 9:15 tonight." Flanagan's eyes were wide. He didn't look well. "He told me he was going to plant it after security was in place, after the bomb sweep. That way no one would do another check even if you called in."

"Now I get it. That's why she put me here at the Watergate. To make the plan work, she needed to have me kept alive until the bomb had been planted. And she wanted me near the Kennedy Center when the bomb detonated. You were going to shoot me and make it look like a suicide, weren't you? The headline: 'Assassin found dead in his hideout across the street from the Kennedy Center.' "

"This wasn't my idea."

Garrison shoved the .38 in his waistband. He lifted the cellular phone from his belt and dialed the White House number.

"What are you doing?" Flanagan asked, holding his upper arm.

"Calling the advance agent at the Kennedy Center. You're going to tell him where you put the bomb and how to disarm it. Either that or I kill you."

There was a sudden, loud knocking on the door.

Garrison stopped dialing.

"Who's there?"

"Housekeeping. Is everything okay in there?"

Flanagan dove across the table and grabbed Garrison's gun.

"Help!" Flanagan shouted.

They struggled away from the table to the wall. They crashed into a glass bookcase, knocking vases to the floor. The gun fired. A dull pain pierced the left side of Garrison's head, but he still managed to keep his hands on the gun. They struggled back and forth, locked together in a death contest. Flanagan almost turned the barrel around on him, but Garrison maintained his grip, straining with every fiber in his being. They slammed against the table, and then fell to the floor. Garrison fought savagely. He could hear Flanagan's breathing as they struggled to their feet.

Flanagan snapped his head forward, head-butting Garrison on the bridge of the nose. Garrison saw black for a moment. Dazed, Garrison twisted powerfully, using every ounce of his strength.

There was a muffled pop sound, and he felt the shock wave of the bullet as it hit Flanagan. Releasing his grip on the gun, Flanagan fell forward, his body causing a sickening thud as it hit the floor. There was hole in the back of his shirt from a through-and-through wound to the chest. His eyes were open. Garrison dropped to his knees.

"Where is the bomb planted?" Garrison asked. Flanagan's eyes closed involuntarily. Garrison slapped his face. He was dead. "You bastard."

The pounding on the door continued.

"Open the door or we'll kick it in!" a man shouted.

Garrison frantically searched Flanagan's pockets as Technicolor images flashed through his mind: Meriweather lying on the floor of his motel room; Walter Sebastian in the alley behind the Marriott Hotel; Breckinridge in the hospital room. In Flanagan's inside jacket pocket, he found the cassette tape and a folded six-page Secret Service Advance Survey report. He shoved the items in his pocket, unclipped the Secret Service radio from Flanagan's belt.

"I'll be right there!"

He ran through the kitchen to the service entrance. Using the peephole, he saw there was no one there. He opened the door and ran to the stairway. Descending steps three at a time, he ran down all six flights to the garage. There was a taxi parked in front.

"Are you the one who called, Sir?"

"Yes," Garrison said getting in.

"Where to?"

"Uh, the Lincoln Memorial." The driver pulled into traffic. Garrison took out Wintergreen's advance security report and thumbed pages. It contained a detailed map of the route from the White House to the Kennedy Center and depictions of every building, storm drain, and manhole cover, including schematic diagrams of the rooms in the Kennedy Center. There were also lists of contact names, including the names and posts of the agents and uniformed officers posted along the route and at the Kennedy Center. Garrison found the list of daily radio codes, and the designations for both the assigned posts and Secret Service supervisors. As a precaution against an intruder breaking into the official radio net, every time the President left the White House and went to another location, special radio codes were assigned to every Secret Service supervisor solely for use at the site to be visited.

The first page of the report read:

ADVANCE SECURITY SURVEY

Visit of the President to the Kennedy Center for the performing arts to attend a performance of the stage play "Long Day's Journey into Night."

ADVANCE AGENT: SA Ronan B. Squires

SUPERVISOR: SAIC Wintergreen

SYNOPSIS

From CROWN, taking route 3 designated by Director Wintergreen, Victory will arrive via limousine 300JX at KCPA at approximately 1840 hours. Victory will be led to Holding Room 1343 where he will await word from Press Secretary that all guests have been seated. Victory's entrance to the Presidential box is a photo opportunity - national coverage. Shift agents are to remain out of camera view as President enters.

During the first intermission (9:00-9:20 P.M.)

Victory and Valentine will move to the Holding Room Alpha where Victory will make previously scheduled telephone call to Beijing and Jakarta on secure line.

Victory will return to Presidential box, then depart KCPA shortly before the end of the last act and return to CROWN.

LIMO PARKING SPOT - 469

HOLDING ROOM - I343

RADIO FREQUENCY - BRAVO LIMA

COMMAND POST - ROOM 661