The South Lawn Plot (32 page)

M
ANNING HAD HIS RADAR TURNED ON FULL
. The ambassador was running late. For the moment Lau was occupied by a group of officials from the various interested parties. There was a man he knew from Belfast in the thick of it, acting as a kind of impresario. Everybody wanted a piece of the Taiwanese billionaire, and from him. The Belfast official was grimly sticking to his man, holding him by the arm. Lau, for his part, looked a little out of it. His health was not good.

Manning heard the ambassador before he saw her, and in turning to match eye contact with that unmistakable voice, he caught a momentary glimpse of the photographer, Pender. Whatever was going to go down it was clear that Pender would play a role. Just precisely what it would be he could only guess at; only he preferred not to guess at all.

“Madam Ambassador,” Manning said in a familiar tone that only the most alert would conclude was ever so slightly mocking.

“Well,” came the reply, “at least everyone turned up. Any sight of the president and the prime minister and, oh there he is, poor Mr. Lau. I hear he's not too well.”

“Not the best,” said Manning. “Before we do anything else, we should meet with the minister. His plane was a little late but he arrived a few minutes ago. He's over under that open sided tent.”

Evans looked at Manning, her eyes narrowed. She was about to pronounce rather than merely say something.

“I'll go over and say hello, of course, but after that it's your job, Eamonn, to keep that dreadful man away from me. I'm determined to enjoy myself here today. It's a splendid opportunity.”

Her words fell below audible level. Phillipa Evans had spotted someone worth her attention and was gone. The minister would simply have to wait.

Conway was breathing slowly in and out in an effort to relax. Jim Schrull, one of the two most senior agents on the presidential detail had noticed her
nervousness and had nodded in an affirming way. Jack Garraty, the other old hand, had winked at her. The president referred to them as his Jack and Joker.

Packer was fond of cards, and throughout his term there had been late night card games in the family quarters whenever the state of the country, or the world, allowed for a couple of hours of poker, or a version that the president had himself concocted and liked to call Oklahoma Throw ‘Em.

“Wouldn't want Texas to get all the glory,” he had told a reporter who had inquired about what had become known in some corners of the press as the president's Canasta Cabinet.

“About ten minutes to lift off,” Schrull said as he fiddled with his earpiece. “The big man is in the bathroom freshening up.”

Conway noticed that Rafter was flexing the fingers on his left hand. He would hold the president's belt with that hand so would be standing slightly behind and to the president's right. Schrull would be just ahead of the president as he moved down the greeting line with Garraty to Packer's right. Conway was on point, a few feet beyond Schrull. She was the scout.

Other agents would be scanning the crowd but Conway, Schrull, Rafter and Garraty would be the infield group.

It had been decided that the president would do his meet and greet routine before joining the Irish visitors for the photo-op with Henry Lau, who, for all intents and purposes, was the main guest of honor. Then the president would be pictured alone with Lau. It would be his little favor to a dying man.

It was all simple enough, Conway thought. She continued to hold on to this thought as her cell phone, which she had kept in her pocket and had set to vibrate mode, erupted for a second time. She reached for it and, taking a quick glance at the caller's number, put it to her ear. “Yes,” she hissed.

Bailey, along with the rest of the British press corps, traveling and American-based, had by now wandered back into the general melee. He thought for a moment about approaching the Taiwanese star of the show, Lau, but thought better of it as the man was at that moment being smothered by a rather loud woman in an outfit that more than matched the heat of the day. Bailey got close enough to hear the woman issue an invitation to visit Dublin before seeking out the shade of a tree.

He was, he knew, going to have to focus all his attention on Spencer. To hell with all the rest of it, he thought. He found himself shivering despite the
temperature that must have been pushing ninety degrees. And as if to confirm this his eye caught sight of a soaring thunderhead which looked for all the world like an atomic mushroom cloud over the city.

Bugger, he thought, that thing better hold off until after the ceremony. Spencer, he knew, would probably seize upon any excuse to duck back into the shelter of the president's house.

As a young man, Henry Lau had indulged himself in various martial arts disciplines. He was drawing upon all his mental and physical reserves, though only in part due to the verbal assault from the Irish ambassador to the United States. She had apparently enjoyed her visit to China a few years back, a sojourn that had taken in Beijing, Shanghai, Xian and those magnificent terra cotta soldiers and Hong Kong, oh wonderful Hong Kong.

Lau smiled and nodded as best he could, but he was in a losing battle. Because of the task he would in minutes have to perform he had gone without his full dosage of painkillers; indeed he had taken nothing at all beyond a couple of aspirin. Soon, he knew, the pain would be unbearable. For most people that point would have already passed. But Henry Lau wasn't everybody, an idea he allowed swirl around in his mind for the past several hours. It was becoming harder to remain focused on it, however, and this woman was threatening to break down his final reserves.

“Madam, sadly I have never been to these places you speak of since my childhood. I have never been to the China some refer to as the mainland. Now, if you will excuse me, I do need to visit the bathroom.”

To the sound of an “oh dear” and the sight of a determined refocusing of attention on another victim standing nearby, Lau bowed his head and with the aid of his walking stick made for what he had been told by a White House assistant was the bathroom just inside a door at the rear of the mansion.

Lau continued to smile and nod at people as he walked, whether others acknowledged him or not. He had traveled to the White House alone, save for a driver who would soon hear some shocking news concerning his charge.

In moments, he had reached the air-conditioned interior of the house and followed a sign that led into a room off of which was one of the world's most exclusive pit stops. Lau could not help but smile, though he did not veer for an instant from his target. It was a book at the end of a row of books, third shelf from the top. The anteroom was lined with shelves carrying volumes of presidential papers. The book that he sought was packed with the thoughts, words and deeds of Richard Nixon, and it was right beside the bathroom door.

Lau glanced around. Another guest was staring at others books across the room, and he was aware of a couple of people talking excitedly in the bathroom.

Lau withdrew the volume and inserted the crook of his stick in his suit pocket. He flipped through the pages until he reached page one hundred. It was here that the blank piece of paper had been inserted by the American Secret Service agent in the employ of the English secret agent, Burdin. There was nothing remarkable about the paper. It was a little darker than the pages in the book but there was nothing to indicate that it had the potential to kill.

Lau carefully took the page and folded it. This he could do. The substance that it had been coated with, seemingly one of the most deadly potions concocted by the old KGB's Executive Action Department V, was at this point inert. It only became effective when brought into contact with liquid, which, Lau thought, was somehow appropriate given that Department V's work, which centered more or less on murder, sabotage and kidnapping, was collectively referred to as, in the jargon of the time, wet affairs.

Lau placed the page gently in his pocket and glanced into the bathroom. The man who was talking was stuffing paper towels adorned with the presidential seal into his pocket. The man he was babbling to was in a cubicle.

Lau turned, grabbed his stick and with all the strength he was still able to draw upon, made his way back to the South Lawn and its chattering horde.

Everything was working. Everything would work. His people would have their revenge at the very point of being betrayed.

C
ONWAY DABBED HER BROW WITH A TISSUE
. She was still inside so her discomfort had nothing to do with the heat. It had been the cell phone call from the Globescan office. She didn't quite know what to make of it. Neither did her caller and the rest of them in the office, although they were trying to stitch things together.

The bottom line, based on information coming in from Britain through media, official and intelligence channels, was that the prince's defection, for want of a better word, was somehow tied to a series of murders of Catholic priests and that there was a connection, unclear and unproven, to the office of the prime minister, to Number 10 Downing Street.

Conway was staring at the door. The president and Spencer were due to appear at any second after their private conversation in the West Wing. And as she considered whether not to tell her superiors about the storm breaking about the guest of honor's head, the two men came into view, Packer leading Spencer by the arm and pointing at portraits of presidents and patriots, one or two of whom had distinguished themselves battling the prime minister's predecessors.

“And as you know, Mr. Prime Minister, we might be rolling out the cannon again in the next couple of days.”

To Conway's ear, Packer's already booming voice seemed to have risen a few decibels. Clearly, she thought, the president's adrenaline was up. It would mean that he would be extra lively with the crowd and would no doubt bust through the rope.

She tapped her earphone, nodded to the other agents who would be taking the lead with her and stepped in front of the president and Spencer. Dalton, she knew, would be bringing up the rear along with Rafter, the president's belt buddy.

Conway had decided not to wear sunglasses on her debut and, as it turned out, they were unnecessary. It had turned cloudy, although the heat of the
afternoon was a slap to the senses as soon as they were clear of the building and its circulated, cool air.

The crowd was milling about the lawn with many taking refuge under the canopy where drinks were being served. There were no chairs. The ceremony was to be a truncated one given the situation on the far side of the globe. Sometimes, Conway thought, geopolitics had its virtues. A couple of short speeches, the presentation of a ceremonial check, photos and some flesh-pressing and her debut would be over.

She walked slowly towards the steps leading up to the stage, ignoring the band's hailing to the chief and taking in the people lining the velvet rope. They were applauding and cheering, some were overly excited; none appeared to be threatening.

Walking in front of the stage, Conway kept her eyes looking left. Dalton and Rafter would be mounting the stage with the president. She was to stand with her back to the presidential podium. And as she did so she noticed some in the crowd were staring at her. This, of course, was potentially distracting so she gave into the inevitable, reached into her suit pocket and extracted her Ray Bans.

Now I look the part, she thought, and as she did so, Packer began to speak.

Pender had his lens focused on Lau. The news from Britain had made its way from the reporters to the photographers with the inevitable result. Most of the cameras were pointed towards Spencer, a few at the president. But Pender had Lau in his sights. He was sitting behind the president staring out over the crowd and into the distance. He didn't look too well. But, of course, he wasn't. Pender checked his watch. It was almost four, the appointed hour for the presentation and ceremonial handshakes. He shook his head and rolled his eyes as a rumble of thunder to his rear grew louder.

“But, of course,” he said as he reached for a camera cover though, as yet, it had not started to rain.

The changing weather seemed to energize the various White House aides and the security teams hovering around both leaders. Packer, his long arms extended, began to herd his guests off the podium towards a spot on the lawn where a green mat had been placed.

Lau moved with surprising agility despite the walking cane, Pender observed. The group descended from the podium and took its position for what
the program had described as the ceremonial presentation of a check, or a presentation of a ceremonial check, Pender could not quite remember which.

The president was all smiles. Spencer looked grim because this was the point that reporters would get to ask questions. Lau seemed to be smiling, or trying to. The three lined up at their designated spot, fifteen feet from the camera positions.

“This is a great day. Despite the cloud hanging over our world, this is proof positive that the work of peace goes on. I hope it will inspire others to embrace that path of peace,” Packer said to a smattering of applause.

It was a clear reference to the Chinese, and Pender noticed Lau nodding. The man was no longer smiling.

Pender lifted his head momentarily to get his bearings. Spencer was on his left, Lau was in the middle, and Packer was on his right. On either side, but just outside what would be the frame of the coming photographs were two women, one a buffed looking Secret Service agent standing to Packer's left. A smaller woman with short blonde hair was standing a little behind and to Spencer's right. Another man was a standing right behind Packer but would not figure once Pender had zoomed in on his big three.

“Here we go,” he said as his eye returned to his camera.

He would later tell a friend that the next few seconds seemed to last minutes with the added effect that they would rewind in his mind's eye, over and over. Packer was talking and gesticulating with his hands, Spencer was nodding. Lau was leaning over on his stick and seemingly putting something in his mouth.

Now he was standing straight, a look of amazement on his face, or so it seemed. He began to convulse even as the thunder exploded overhead and the South Lawn was struck with a rain shower and blast of wind that was tropical in its suddenness and intensity.

The other photographers around him were pushing equipment into bags but Pender kept shooting, even as Lau hit the ground and Packer fell into the arms of the agent, the woman, who caught him before he hit the ground. Spencer was on his knees, the other woman, presumably part of his police protection unit, had her hands around his torso but she wasn't pulling him up; rather she was crumpled over the prime minister.

Pandemonium followed with people screaming and agents running in from the sides. Paramedics appeared within seconds and the entire scene became enveloped in a strange sepia light as the storm cloud began to give
way to the sun. Somebody shouted that the president had been struck by lightning.

Pender finally lifted his head. He had the shot. He had completed his assignment. He jammed his camera into his bag and moved to the back of the stands. He knew that he would not leave the White House for many hours and that his photos would be considered evidence. No matter, they would be all over the world before then anyway, and Lau would have his immortality.

Pender glanced up. The sun was breaking through and the great house, witness to so much history, though never an assassination, seemed to almost shimmer in the new light. There were flower boxes on the circular balcony overlooking the South Lawn, the one named after Truman. Pender stared at the balcony, the red blooms. He knew he would remember the moment for ever.