Choppy Water

33

Bill Wright and Tom Blake sat in Holly’s temporary office and watched as two FBI technicians worked. They set up a card table in front of the window and placed the dummy, dressed in a white blouse and a red wig, in a chair between the window and the table. They borrowed several thick documents from Holly’s desk and arranged them on the card table, then placed the dummy’s left hand on an open document and her right hand, holding a pencil, on another document. They set a lamp on the table and plugged it into a receptacle under the window.

“Would you turn on that light switch, please, Mr. Blake?” the tech in charge asked, pointing to a switch beside the door. Bill did so, and the light came on. Also, the head of the dummy, which had been pointed down at the open document, turned to its right, and its right hand made small movements, as if writing.

“Wonderful!” Bill said “From a distance it will be indistinguishable from the lady herself.”

“I agree,” Tom said. “Thank you, gentlemen.”

The two techs closed their tool kits and prepared to depart.

“How will we turn it on tomorrow morning?” Tom asked.

“We’re not going to have access at dawn,” Bill replied.

“Why don’t you just leave the light switch on?” the lead tech said. “It’s a fresh lightbulb; it won’t burn out overnight.”

“Good idea,” Bill said

The two men took their tools and left. Wright and Blake departed with them, leaving the light switch on.

The dummy continued doing its work.

At three AM, they circled the block, checking for police, then stopped at the gate to the church gardens. “Can you handle the lock?” the driver asked Eugene.

“I can handle just about any lock,” Eugene replied. “Honk, if you spot a cop.” He got out of the car, took his case, and walked to the gate, perhaps thirty feet away. He removed an instrument that looked like a small electric drill from his case, inserted one end in the lock, and opened it in under twenty seconds. He closed his case and let himself into the garden, then applied a piece of duct tape to the lock’s bolt, so that it wouldn’t lock him in. That done, he walked up the stone path to the rear of the rectory and unlocked the rear door by the same means.

Inside, he made sure he could open it without a key, then walked to the elevator and took it to the top floor. He was surprised to find two of the single rooms locked, but the third one was not. He pulled on a pair of soft, thin leather gloves and let himself into the room, then set his case on the bed and opened it.

The case contained the dismantled rifle, scope, and silencer; his lock pick; and a coil of nylon rope with a half-hook at one end, the whole length tied in a series of knots. He walked across the dormitory room, opened the unlocked window, laid the half-hook over the sill and tossed the rope out into the night air. He watched to see that the other end nearly touched the ground.

He returned to the room, locked the door behind him, and then practiced assembling and disassembling the rifle as quickly as possible, something he had rehearsed many times in his room. He set up the folding tripod, attached the rifle, and sighted across the avenue to the White House, where a single window of the family quarters was lit. To his astonishment, the woman was sitting at a desk, going through a document and making notes.

“Good God, an insomniac,” he said.

He checked his equipment again, then it occurred to him: Why wait? His chances of pulling this off and getting away were better now than in the morning. He got out his cell phone and speed-dialed a number.

“Yes?”

“Conditions are favorable at this hour,” he said.

“Now?” came the astonished reply.

“I repeat: conditions are favorable now. Plans change. Position the vehicle.”

“As you wish.”

“How long do you need?”

“Three minutes.”

“Ring once when you’re in position.”

“Understood.”

Both men hung up.

Eugene made his final preparations, then sighted through the rifle again. She was still at work. He positioned himself behind the rifle, took aim, and waited.

The cell phone in his breast pocket vibrated once. Eugene squeezed off the first shot. He saw the window star; it would be much weakened now. He squeezed off the second shot, saw the window explode and the woman’s hair move. Then he saw a red flashing light under the eaves near the window and heard a bell start to ring rhythmically. The shattering of the window had tripped an alarm system. He wasn’t going to bother with changing into pajamas; he had to get out now.

Quickly and smoothly, he closed the window, disassembled the rifle, packing each piece into its place, closed the case, unlocked the door and walked quickly to the open window in the dorm. He looked out the window, chose a thicket of bushes, and dropped the case. He saw it disappear into the shrubs.

He straddled the windowsill, checked that the half-hook was holding, then climbed out the window and slid down the rope, controlling his descent with the knots. Once on the ground, he flicked the rope twice; the half-hook popped off the windowsill and fell to the ground. He retrieved his case from the bushes, tucked the rope inside it, and ran for the gate, removing the duct tape as he left. The car was waiting.

Eugene tossed his case into the rear compartment of the SUV. “No more than thirty miles an hour,” he said. The driver pulled away and drove, unobserved, through the empty streets.

At three AM, Bill Wright was dressed and having toast and coffee in his kitchen. He and Blake were meeting at the rectory at four AM. His phone rang. “Wright,” he said.

“Code 101 at location zero,” a voice said.

Wright was stunned. “What damage?”

“To be determined.”

Wright put away his phone and ran for his car. The second call came as he was backing out of his garage.

“It’s Tom. Did you hear?”

“I’m on my way. I’ll meet you there.” He hung up and switched on his flashing lights.

The White House gate guard waved him through quickly. He drove to the portico, got out, and ran for the elevator.

Tom Blake was already in the room, along with two uniformed Secret Service guards. Holly Barker and the president and the first gentleman were also in the room, all of them dressed in nightclothes and robes.

Bill said good evening to them, then walked to the window and inspected it. There was a hole the size of a softball in the two layers of glass. “Upgrade needed here,” he said to nobody in particular.

He bent over and inspected the dummy. “Two shots to the head.”

“Then I must be deceased,” Holly said.