Choppy Water

50

Wade Sykes sat in the rear seat of his SUV, wearing his class A uniform, with his colonel’s eagles on his shoulders, and waited for the traffic to move at the main gate of the Army Intelligence Center. The gate guards were looking closely at IDs and examining the trunks of visiting cars.

Eugene was at the wheel, also in his class A uniform, with its sergeant’s stripes.

Finally, they pulled to a stop at the guardhouse. The sergeant on duty spotted the eagles and snapped off a salute, which Sykes returned. “Good morning, Colonel,” the man said, peering into the car, which Eugene had taken care to clean of any items that might arouse suspicion. “IDs,” he said. Eugene handed him both his and the colonel’s, and the guard had a long look at them before handing them back. “Open the tailgate, please,” the guard said. Eugene pressed the button. The guard lifted the floorboards and had a look at and around the spare tire, then closed the tailgate. He walked back to the driver’s window and handed over the IDs. “Pass on,” he said, and Eugene did so.

“The IDs held up,” Eugene said.

“What did you expect?” the colonel asked. “They’re the real thing. If they’d run them, our photos would have popped up.”

“I guess we can’t do better than that,” Eugene replied.

Sykes consulted a map. “Second right,” he said. “The auditorium will be on your left.”

Eugene found the building and pulled into the parking lot, and both men got out.

Sykes walked to the main entrance of the building and tried the doors; they were unlocked. They passed through a large lobby area and the double doors. The empty rows of the auditorium lay before them. “It seats seven hundred fifty,” Sykes said, “and I’m sure it will be full.”

“Can we go upstairs?” Eugene asked.

The colonel led the way. “It has a projection booth.”

The booth was in the center of the last row of balcony seats. Eugene tried the door. “Locked.” He took a lockpick kit from his pocket and made quick work of getting inside. He did not turn on the lights but used a penlight. “I like this,” he said, climbing into the single seat where the projectionist could watch the movie. He looked down at the stage, then opened the small viewing window. “Ideal,” he said.

“That’s what you said about the projection room at St. Mary’s,” the colonel reminded him.

“They’re both ideal,” Eugene said. “Our uniforms and IDs give us an advantage here.”

“We’d have different uniforms at St. Mary’s, but egress is the problem at both venues,” Sykes said. “Let’s have a look.”

Eugene had a last look around, then the two men followed the EXIT signs to a door that opened onto an outside landing and a flight of stairs to the ground.

“Both front and rear entrances,” Eugene said. “A piece of cake.”

“Okay, then how do we get off the base?” the colonel asked.

Eugene pointed past the rear exit and across the street. “Officers club,” he said, “noncom club next door. I’ll drop you at the first then park in front of the second. We can have a sandwich at the bar, wait for the hubbub to die down, then leave by the main gate, where they checked us in.”

“I like it,” Sykes said.

“So do I,” Eugene replied. “But I like St. Mary’s, too. I’d be wearing a workman’s coveralls there. I can put the disassembled rifle in my tool kit, then walk outside onto a busy Manhattan street and get into the van. But here is different. How are we going to get the rifle on and off the base? I don’t want to leave it. It’s a fine piece of equipment.”

“There’s room under the rear seat,” Sykes said. “I’ll ride in the rear seat, like today, so I’ll be sitting on the case.”

“And we have the advantage of already being in their computer, both today and tomorrow. Nothing strange about us.”

“Do you consider them both doable?”

“I do,” Eugene replied.

“Equally so?”

Eugene thought about it. “It’s a shorter shot at St. Mary’s, but given the steep incline of the seating area, more downhill; but I can deal with that. Yes, equally so.”

“Then let’s go back to the city and think on it,” Sykes replied.

They took the George Washington Bridge back across the Hudson River, because Sykes always felt trapped in a tunnel, even one as large as the Lincoln.

Bess left Bloomingdale’s and couldn’t find a vacant cab anywhere, so she hoofed it back to the Lowell, which was only a few blocks. Tom Blake was sitting in the hotel lobby, reading a newspaper. He did not look at her as she passed.

She was putting away the plunder of the day when there was a rap on the inside door. She opened it, and Tom was standing there.

“We’ve got a problem,” Tom said.

“Come in and have a seat.”

Tom sat down. “We’ve narrowed their opportunity to two venues,” he said. “She’s giving an award at St. Mary’s College at nine AM tomorrow, then she’s moving to the Army Intelligence Center in New Jersey, for an 1:30 PM event.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“We don’t know which one they’re going to make the attempt at.”

“Jesus, Tom, then cover both of them!”

“We don’t have the personnel. The president is in town for an appearance downtown tomorrow, and the White House has drained away all available personnel from both the Bureau and the Secret Service.”

“How about the New Jersey State police?”

“They can’t operate on a federal installation.”

“Army MPs can.”

“They’re all tied up dealing with the traffic and visitors for the event.”

“Have you got enough people to cover one event?”

“Yes, but barely.”

“Then pick one and cancel the other.”

“Peregrine refuses to cancel either, says they’re very important to statements she wants to make — on the arts at St. Mary’s and on national defense in New Jersey. Do you think you can find out from Sykes which one he’s going to hit?”

“I think the odds are heavily against it. He’s beginning to trust me, but we’re not there yet.”

“Then I’ll call Stone Barrington. Maybe she’ll listen to him.”

“Now that’s an idea.”