Under Siege (59 page)

,cops and FBI agents gotta obey the law too. Harrison went over the edge.” The irritation was plain in Hooper’s voice. “Why are we having this conversation?”

“Ford’s mistake was not being in bed sound asleep when Tony Anselmo came calling with his sawed-off shotgun. Then he could have just died in his sleep and none of this mess would have happened.”

“I know he killed Anselmo in self-defense,” Hooper growled. “Nobody’s suggesting charging him for that.”

“You think that fight at the warehouse wasn’t self-defense? My God, Tom. He’s got a bullet in the back.

Hooper got out of his chair and went over to the window. He ran his fingers through his hair. “So what are you suggesting?”

“I think Harrison Ford has done enough for his country. I’m suggest ng we close the file on the Mcationally case and let Fbrd go back to Evansville.”

“Just like that” “Just like that.” Hooper stood looking out the window.

“We should have busted Mcationally in September,” Freddy mid, more to himself than to his boss.

Tom Hooper had spent twenty-six years in the FBI. He ought about those years now and the various tough ices he had had to make along the way. Freddy irritated him with all this crap about September. They had handled this case right all the way, and circumstances beyond everyone’s control had intervened. His thoughts turned to Ford-the man was not a good undercover agent. Oh, sure, he could think on his feet and he was brave as a bull, but he had too much imagination. He thought too damn much.

He stood at the window tallying Ford’s sins. Goddamn that asshole, anyway. “Ford was planning to gun Mcationally and all the rest of them, then go back to his room at Quantico. He was going to call us and claim he and Anselmo had struggled and he had been knocked out. That’s why he changed guns at Mcationally’s house. We’ve got no proof that he killed Pioche. None! It’s plausible that Anselmo killed him before he went to kill Ford. If Ford hadn’t been wounded at the warehouse we might not have been able to place him there. All we would have had is a bunch of corpses.”

“You think?” Freddy said behind him.

“I know! I can read that man’s mind. He’s no cop! He thinks like a goddamn jarhead. Attack! Always attack.”

Hooper turned around. Freddy was perusing the lab reports. “You listening to me?” he asked Freddy. “I heard.”

“Ford and Mcationally. They’rejust alike. Screw the law! The law is for those other guys, all those guys who can’t get away with breaking it. They both think like that!”

Freddy folded the reports and stacked them neatly. He took his time with it and examined the pile to make sure it was perfectly aligned, with the files in proper numerical sequence. When he finished he spoke slowly, without looking tilde at Hooper:

“Mcationally’s out of business. Permanently. That, I thought, was our ultimate goal all along. And the government isn’t going to have to spend a nickel trying him. No board and

room in a heated cell for the rest of his life at the taxpayers’ expense. No appeals. No claims of racial bigotry or oppression. It’s all over.”

He picked up the stack of files and held it out for Hooper. “Close the case,” he said.

Just then the intercom buzzed. “Yes,” Freddy said into the box.

“There’s a call for Mr. Hooper from New Mexico. Another identification of that artist’s drawing of the assassin.”

“Tell her I’ll take it in my office,” Hooper told Freddy. He picked up the files and put them under his arm.

The first shots were fired at the soldiers in a poorer section of northeast Washington around two p.m. A detail had halted a beat-up ‘65 Cadillac containing two black youths and were marching them toward a truck when someone fired a shot. The soldiers dropped to the ground and began looking for the shooter. The two black youths ran. One of the soldiers in full combat gear ran after them. He had gone about fifty feet when there was another shot and he fell to the sidewalk.

His comrades sent a hail of lead into a second-floor window over a corner grocery, then kicked the door in and charged up the stairs. Inside the room they found a fifteenyear-old boy with a bullet-wound in his arm huddled on the floor. Beside him lay an old lever-action rifle.

“Why’d you shoot?” the sergeant demanded. “Why’d you shoot that soldier?”

The boy wouldn’t answer. He was dragged down the stairs and, in full view of a rapidly gathering crowd, was thrown roughly into a truck for the ride to the hospital. Beside him on a stretcher lay the man he had shot.

“Honkey pigs,” one woman shouted. “Affesting kids! Why you honkies here in our neighborhood anyway? Out to hassle the niggers?”

A brick sailed over the crowd and just missed a soldier. It took the soldiers twenty minutes to run the crowd off. While this incident was playing itself out, a dope addict in

public housing project two miles away fired a shotgun rough a closed door, striking the soldier who was knockon it full in the face. The second shot splattered harmlessly against the wall.

The soldiers kicked in the door while the addict wrestled with the lever to break open the double-barrel. His wife was sitting nearby in a chair. She watched silently as two soldiers with their M-I 6’s on full automatic emptied their magazines into her husband from a distance of eight feet. The soldiers were hasty and inexperienced. Some of their bullets missed. However thirty-two of them-the corroner did the counting

y ng later-ripped through the addict before his corpse hit the floor.

When darkness fell the number of incidents increased. The communications room at the armory became a beehive of activity as reports of shootings and angry crowds poured in over the radios.

At the Executive Office Building General Land conferred with the VicePresident. Lacking any other options, they agreed that more troops would be brought in and sent to each trouble spot. General Land ordered in a battalion that was on standby at Andrews Air Force Base.

Jake Grafton was at the armory poring over a map trying to learn which areas had been searched and which had not when he was called to the telephone. “Captain, Special Agent Hooper.”

“Yes.”

“I thought you’d like to know. We’ve received over a

dozen tentative identifications of the artist’s conception of the assassin. Two in the Washington area and others from all over. We’re checking all of them. But I thought you might want to swing by the local addresses. The agents are still there. You ready to copy?”

“Go ahead.” Jake got out his pen.

When the captain had copied and read back both addresses, Hooper said, “I think the most likely ID is one out of New Mexico. Very definite. From a game warden and a Ps station proprietor. They think the guy is a rancher out there and a suspected long-time poacher. Real good with firearms. Ran a guide service for out-of-state high rollers for the last seven or eight hunting seasons. A deputy sheriff went out to his ranch this afternoon and looked around. No one there. Doesn’t appear to have been anyone there for a week or so.”

“What’s the name?”

“Charon. Henry Charon. The New Mexico Department of Motor Vehicles gives his date of birth as March 6, 1952. We’ve already got a fax of the driver’s license photo. I’ve seen it. This could be our guy. We’ve got agents showing it to our witness now.”

“Can I get some copies?”

“The agents checking out the local reports have copies. They’ll give you one. We’ll send some over to the armory as soon as we can.”

“Like maybe a couple thousand of them.”

“Well, we’ll do what we can. Gonna take a little while.”

“As soon as you can.”

“Sure. “How about the national crime computer? This guy have a record or some warrants?”

“We tried. Didn’t get a hit. We’re checking.”

“Thanks for the call, Hooper.”

“YeA.” The nearest address was an apartment building on Georgetown Avenue. Jack Yocke drove. When they were stopped at a roadblock, he showed a pass signed by General

while Jake, Toad, and Rita displayed their green litary ID cards. The sergeant examined the ID card and flashed a light in each of the officers’ faces. Two men, both with M-I 6’s leveled, stood where they could shoot past the sergeant.

“You may go on through, sir,” the sergeant said as he saluted. Jake returned the salute as Yocke fed gas.

There was no parking place in front of the building, so Yocke double-parked. “A license to steal,” he gloated.

“Toad, write him a citation,” Jake said before he slammed the door.

The FBI agents were still talking to the apartment manager. Jake introduced himself. One of the agents took him out in the hall. He produced a sheet of fax paper with a picture in the middle. Much bigger than the little photo on a driver’s license, the picture still had the same look: a man staring straight at the camera, his nose slightly distorted by the lens. “The lady in here says this guy has been a tenant for about a month. We’re waiting for a search warrant to arrive.”

“But I thought this was the New Mexico driver’s license photo?”

“It is. It’s the same guy.”

“Henry Charon.”

“Interesting name. But not the one he used here. Called himself Sam Donally. She asked to see a driver’s license when he signed the lease. She thinks it was Virginia, but isn’t sure. She didn’t write down the number. We’re running Virginia DMV now. Without a date of birth it’ll take a little time.”

“Maybe he used the same date of birth. Easier to remember.”

“Maybe.”

“When did she last see him?”

“Four days or so ago. But she’s only seen him about eight or ten times since he rented the apartment. He goes away for several days at a time. Says he does consulting work for the that’ government. And-this is funny-of the ten other apartments in this building, six of the tenants are here-and not one can positively identify either the photo or the drawing.

Three thought it might be him, but only after I suggested that it might be.”

“The manager expect him back at any definite time?”

“Whenever. He never says.”

.s he could just come waltzing in any ol’ time?”

“It’s possible.”

“Any chance he’s upstairs now?”

“I went up on the fire escape fifteen minutes ago and peeked in. Place looks empty.” Jake stared at the picture. The face was regular, the features quite average but arranged in such a way that no one would ever call the owner handsome. He looked … it was hard to say. He looked, Jake decided, like everybody else. It was as if the owner of that face had no personality of his own. The eyes stared out, slightly bored ” promising nothing. Not great intelligence, not wit, not … Nothing was hidden behind the smooth brow, the calm, unemotional features. Wrong. Everything was hidden.

He took a copy of the artist’s rendering from his pocket and held it beside the photo. Well, it was and it wasn’t.

“Thanks,” Jake Grafton told the agent.

In the car he showed the picture to the others. They immediately whipped out their copies of the line drawing to compare. “Oh yes,” Rita said. “It’s him. It’s the same man.”

“No, it isn’t,” said her husband. “It could be, perhaps, but

“Let’s go,” Jake told Yocke. “The place on Q Street.” With traffic practically nonexistent, Yocke made excellent time. He ran every red light after merely slowing for a look. They drove past the Lafayette Circle address, Toad pointed out the error, and Yocke circled the block.

There was a parking place clearly visible fifty feet down the street, but Yocke double-parked in front of the main entrance. He gave Grafton a bland, slightly smug smile.

The captain sighed and got out of the car. “Toad, phone the armory and find out what’s happening.” While the lieutenant used the telephone inside, Jake

confeffed with another agent in the hall. He was back in the car waiting when Toad came down the steps. “Riots,” Toad reported. “The lid is coming off.”

“Any sign of the terrorists?”

“Nothing yet.”

“Let’s go back to the armory,” Jake told Yocke and tapped the dashboard.

“Aye aye, sir. What did the manager say?”

“Wasn’t the manager. He’s gone for the holidays. It was one of the tenants. Identifies both pictures. Says the guy called himself Smithson. He couldn’t remember the first name. Been here about a month.”

“Only one tenant?” Rita asked. “What about all the others?” 4eajust one. No one else is sure. The agents are going door to door.”

“You’d think if one person saw him and was sure, they all would at least recognize the photo.”

“You’d think,” Jake Grafton agreed.

Assume these people are correct. Assume Henry CharonSmithson-Sam Donally were all one and the same man. He had two apartments. No. make that at least two. What if he had three? Or four?

Grafton looked up at the buildings the car drove past. He could be up there right now, watching the street. But why had so few people seen him?

Let’s assume the man is really Henry Charon from New Mexico. He comes to town, takes several apartments. Why? Because the hotels and motels were the very first places the police checked. Yet the minute his picture ran in the paper, he would have to abandon all the apartments. Wouldn’t he? But that was a bad break. Unexpected. He worked like hell to ensure there would be no witnesses. But he was seen. That was always a possibility.

Apartments. He rented apartments about a month ago. The conclusion was inescapable-the attempt on the President’s life was very carefully planned. Most attempts to kill the President were made by emotionally disturbed individ

wKnowledge Jake knew, screwballs who acted on a sudden impulse when an opportunity presented itself Charon or Smithson or n care ly planned, bided his that] . And he should have succeeded. This was the nightmare the Secret Service worked to foil-the professional killer who stalked his prey, the hunter of men.

It fitted. Charon was a poacher and a professional hunting gtude. He knew firearms. He could shoot.

A hunter. A man at home outdoors.

Well, there were the alleys and the railroad yards. Maybe the places under bridges and overpasses where the burns hang out.

No. He would be seen and remembered in all those areas unless he went to great pains to look like a derelict. And to pass freely in the world of working people and tourists that was the rest of Washington, he would have to be groomed and dressed appropriately. A master of disguise, perhaps? A quick change artist? Jake thought not.