Rasputin's Shadow

69

I checked my watch as we landed at the helipad of the Washington Post Building, which was the one nearest to the Hilton. It was already edging past six fifteen. The president would be arriving in about forty-five minutes.

Everett was waiting for us at the helipad, ready to whisk us up to the Hilton, which was a ten-minute drive away.

“I spoke to the director of the Secret Service,” Everett told me as we set off. “He didn’t exactly embrace this.”

“I didn’t think he would,” I replied.

We blew past Dupont Circle and up Connecticut Avenue, but it wasn’t long before the traffic hit a standstill. It was wall-to-wall limos, one long stream of Lincoln Town Cars and the like ferrying the glamorous attendees to the big event. Media vans were parked to our left all along Connecticut Avenue, satellite dishes deployed. I flashed at how ideal one of those would be for Koschey and wondered if hooking up Sokolov’s machine to those dishes could be done, but based on what Sokolov had said, I discounted it as something Koschey would not have been able to set up this quickly. If anything, this was an opportunistic move on his part. He’d be keeping it simple. Not that it was going to make it any easier to find him.

“Roadblocks and diversions have been up all afternoon,” Everett told us. “They’ve got a major red-carpet thing going. It’s a zoo. And a big headache for us, especially since we’re playing second fiddle.”

I knew what he meant. The dinner had been designated a National Special Security Event by the secretary of Homeland Security. This meant the Secret Service was running the show as lead agency for the design and implementation of the NSSE’s operational security plan. They’d be working in partnership with law enforcement and public-safety officials at the local, state, and federal levels, but it was still their show, and they weren’t shy about showing it.

Everett badged us through a police roadblock to get onto T Street and we came to a stop behind a big gray Mobile Command truck, about a hundred yards south of the hotel’s main entrance.

I glanced at the hotel. It was a huge, sprawling, curved structure, about twelve floors high. It had a ’60s vibe going, what with its two semicircular wings and its facade of white rectangular modules. I asked Larisa and Sokolov to wait by Everett’s car while Aparo and I followed Everett to where a cluster of senior agents were engaged in heated debate.

As we reached the group, a tall suited agent with short graying hair and seemingly devoid of a single ounce of body fat cocked his head to one side and answered a question, his tone dripping with sarcasm: “I’m not going to stand around any longer talking hypotheticals. We’ll know soon enough whether the feds are wasting our time. I’ve got things to do.”

He raised his wrist to his mouth-no doubt to issue a stream of instructions-and started to walk away when Everett intercepted him.

“I’ve got Reilly and his partner here,” he told him, using his thumb to point us out. He turned to me and said, “Gene Romita,” tilting his head at the director of the Secret Service.

Romita cocked an eyebrow in my direction, then gave me a once-over like I was an attraction at a freak show. Everett shook hands with another one of the men and introduced him to me as Assistant Commissioner Terry Caniff. Caniff was a stocky, gray-bearded man wearing a look of permanent rancor, a look not helped by what Romita had said as we were coming in. I didn’t envy him; it can’t be easy running the police force in a city where every single military and civilian law-enforcement and intelligence outfit either has its headquarters or a significant operational presence.

“Everett tells me you’re playing a hunch,” Romita told me gruffly. “So tell me what you’ve got, but make it quick.” He checked his watch. “POTUS leaves the White House in forty minutes.”

I gave him a brief rundown of what Sokolov had created without getting into the nitty-gritty of how it worked. I then told him about Koschey having it in an undetermined car, and how I thought he might be about to use it.

“That big bust-up at that bar in Brighton Beach,” Aparo added. “You saw the reports, right?”

He nodded.

“That was it,” he told Romita.

“You know that for a fact?”

I said, “We came pretty close to getting hold of the van that night. It didn’t work out.”

Romita mulled it over for a second, then said, “Here’s my problem, Reilly. I don’t know what to make of your story. I don’t know if there’s some Russian rogue running around with some kind of oversized Buck Rogers stun gun. Fact is, even if that were possible and he was out there, we don’t know for a fact that he’s coming here, do we?”

“No, we don’t.”

He didn’t really need my confirmation. “Look, we take any threat-any threat,” he repeated, emphasizing the any, “-to the president’s life very seriously. But we also have to use our better judgment if we’re not going to keep him locked up inside the White House twenty-four-seven. ’Cause as you know, we do get threats. And we have to take a view on how credible each threat is. And my problem with this is, there’s no credible intel. There’s nothing credible about it and nothing to indicate a targeted threat to this event. It’s all just based on your hunch. And if I was going to hustle POTUS into his bunker every time someone had a hunch, well, then I’d say those bastards have won. You understand me? They’ve won if they can get us to run for cover that easily. And I’ll be damned if I’m gonna give them or any two-bit terrorist wannabe the satisfaction of knowing they can get the president of the United States to scurry for cover just because they said boo. Show me something credible and I’ll lock him down. But it’s gonna have to be more than a hunch.”

He jabbed a forceful finger in the direction of the hotel behind him. “We’ve got this place locked down tight. The entire perimeter is secure from a block away. Nothing comes in or out without our say-so. We’ve got roadblocks and we’ve got sharpshooters on the roofs. And you’re telling me this guy has some kind of brain zapper that doesn’t need line of sight and has an indeterminate range?” He said it like he didn’t believe a word of it, which didn’t really surprise me. “So what do you suggest? You want us to keep the president in the bunker permanently until we get this guy? We talking about a week, a month, a year? ’Cause that’s what you’re saying, isn’t it? He could strike anytime, anywhere. From a distance. What do you want me to do, exactly?”

I wasn’t sure what I was suggesting anymore.

“I hear you,” I said. “All I’m saying is, factor it in on the off chance that I am right. Let’s make sure we do everything we can and take whatever protective measures are available to us, just in case.”

“Like what? You said this thing can’t be blocked out without specialist gear?”

I nodded. “Get hold of as many earbuds and helmets as you can. Hand them out and tell your men to keep them close at hand. Anything weird starts happening, make sure they put them on as fast as they can. And stay close to POTUS and be ready to evacuate him to the deepest basement in the hotel if it happens.”

I spread my arms like, “That’s all I’ve got.” Because it was and, realistically, he was right. We couldn’t lock down the whole country. And president or not, a strike at an event like this would be devastating, and it wouldn’t necessarily be the last we heard of Koschey.

Romita frowned, unhappy with being put on the spot like that. “You got it.” Then he scoffed. “I’ll also hand out some rolls of aluminum foil. Maybe we can wrap some around our heads for added protection.”

He strode off, remora-like agents in his wake.

Like I said. We were going to be alone on this one.

I glanced at my watch. Half an hour to go.

“We don’t have much time,” I told Everett and Caniff. “Show me the setup.”