Threat warning

CHAPTER THIRTY – SIX

Jonathan laid out his theory. “You don’t have to see the target to hit it,” he finished. “The optimization instructions are very specific. ‘For optimum quality when dealing with a single speaker, the podium and lectern should be situated fifteen to seventeen feet from the upstage panel, and equidistant from the center panels of the side walls.’”

“That sounded like math to me,” Boxers growled. His bearlike qualities magnified significantly when he was awakened from hibernation.

“What it means,” Gail said, her eyes wide, “is that the target is a fixed point in space. With a little trigonometry, by figuring your height relative to the target, and the angle of the side walls, you can be at any other fixed point and kill the target by shooting a point on the panel.”

Boxers got it. “That’s freaking brilliant,” he said. “Son of a bitch has been planning for this forever.”

Jonathan said, “The best terrorists are the most patient terrorists. What makes it particularly brilliant is that Secret Service protocol considers a protectee covered when he’s out of view. He’s got all the time in the world to settle into his sniper’s nest and avoid the Secret Service sweeps.”

“Doesn’t even have to do that,” Venice said. “From what you say, he’ll probably be in an area where they wouldn’t even be looking for a sniper.”

“And that means no countersnipers,” Gail said.

“I’m impressed,” Boxers said. “This asshole’s crazy as a freaking loon, but this is a great plan.”

“You’re not going to tell the Secret Service, are you?” Gail phrased the question as an accusation.

“Let’s play that scenario out,” Jonathan said, rising to the bait. “What exactly would you tell them that’s not going to make you sound like one of the hundreds of crazies who call them every day?”

“There has to be a way,” she said, though her face testified to the opposite. If they told the Secret Service that there was an imminent assassination plot, the agents would want to know details, and they couldn’t talk about the details without confessing to all the nastiness in West Virginia. Not only would that get them all thrown in jail for the rest of their lives, it would also sully whatever case was ultimately built in court against the bad guys.

Plus, there was always the possibility that they were flat-out wrong-if not about the plot, then about the day.

“Suppose we just convince them to move the podium forward or backward a few feet,” Venice said. “If he’s shooting blind, wouldn’t that make a difference?”

“That depends on the configuration of the stage and the lectern,” Jonathan said. He tapped the keyboard and brought up a satellite photo of the Iwo Jima Memorial, the most prominent feature of which was the statue patterned after the famed Joe Rosenthal photo of six marines raising the American flag atop Mount Suribachi in February of 1945. The park was laid out as a rectangle that covered about an acre of land. The long sides of the rectangle ran north and south, with the statue situated on the eastern edge, facing west.

“Okay, Box,” Jonathan said, “and Special Agent Bonneville. Pretend you’re a sniper. Where do you want to be?”

“Zoom out a little,” Boxers said.

Jonathan could tell that Venice was getting twitchy not being in command of the computer, so he intentionally clicked the wrong button, and the picture went away completely.

“Get out of my way,” Venice said, elbowing him out of his chair. He stood, and she took charge. When the satellite image returned, she zoomed out to about a thousand feet.

“Hmm,” Gail said. “There are a lot of options.”

“Not really,” Jonathan argued. He walked to the screen so he could point as he spoke. “We can write off any shots coming from the east,” he said. “That’s the Potomac River. He’d have to shoot from the roof of the Kennedy Center or Lincoln Memorial, and even then he wouldn’t have enough elevation. Down south here, it’s nothing but gravesites in Arlington. No elevation at all.”

“But look north and west,” Gail persisted. “Tall buildings everywhere.”

“Look there on North Meade Street,” Boxers said, pointing to the left-hand, or western, margin of the park. “You’ve got fancy townhouses right there. What is that, a hundred-yard shot? A ten-year-old who’s never fired a gun could make that.”

“Depends on how tall the trees are,” Gail said, pointing to what appeared to be a copse of hardwoods along North Meade Street.

“Think it through, folks,” Jonathan said. “We’re looking for the back of the stage, not the front. The president is going to want the statue as his backdrop.”

“Well, ain’t nobody shooting through the statue,” Boxers said.

“And I disagree that he needs the statue as the backdrop,” Venice said. “This is the Marine Corps’ birthday and it’s just after Veteran’s Day. The statue itself needs to be the star. With all the heat the president takes for putting himself before the military, he’d be nuts to block the view with a stage.”

She had a point, Jonathan thought. Symbols mattered, after all, and the incumbent was having a hard time with his media image.

“Is there anything on how many people are expected to attend?” Gail asked.

“I imagine it’ll be huge,” Jonathan said. “Certainly a lot of military. I’m guessing a lot of politicians, too. Security there on the ground will be really tight.”

Gail stood and walked to the screen. “Look here,” she said. “For that many people, wouldn’t it be best to situate the president on either the north end or the south end, to allow more people to see him straight-on?”

“North end,” Venice said. “He won’t want the backdrop of Arlington Cemetery, either.”

Jonathan liked that. “I think you’re right,” he said.

Boxers raised a finger in inquiry. “You know we’re just wild guessing here, right? What we think doesn’t matter. It’s what we know that matters, and we don’t know anything.”

“You’re right,” Jonathan said. “So, fire up the Batmobile and let’s take a ride to Arlington.”

It wasn’t easy finding a parking place in the Rosslyn area of Arlington under normal circumstances. Finding a spot for the Batmobile-the name Boxers had assigned to Jonathan’s customized Hummer-was particularly daunting. They finally found a spot on a side street, seven blocks away from the Iwo Jima Memorial, and walked the rest of the way. They dressed as regular tourists walking in the cold. It was nearly four when they arrived, and what little warmth the sun had brought was quickly draining away.

At least their coats made it easier to conceal their weapons.

They approached the memorial from North Meade Street, and on first sight, Jonathan dismissed the townhouses across from the park as likely sniper locations. Indeed, the trees were too tall.

As they got closer to the park, Jonathan heard sounds of construction, and when he stepped up onto the grass, he immediately saw why. “Looks like you were right, Gail,” he said. Crews were already constructing the stage on the north end of the park, and laying out hundreds of folding chairs on the lawn.

“No acoustic panels,” Gail observed.

“Specs say they’re lightweight and easy to work with,” Boxers said. “Maybe they go up last.”

“Plus, there’s a lot yet to be done. What did Venice say? The program starts at ten?”

“Right.”

Jonathan ran calculations in his head. “Okay, the sun will have been up for about three and a half hours, which means it’ll be pretty high.”

“Piss-poor lighting on the monument,” Boxers said.

“But perfect lighting for the crowd,” Jonathan added. “Let’s get a little closer to the stage.”

They walked down what tomorrow would be the center aisle through the audience. The entire park was surrounded by trees, but most were hardwoods and fairly dormant now. He was disappointed by the complexity of the skyline on the distant north end, where sixties-vintage high-rises grew like so many bushes in a forest.

“Wow,” Gail said, thinking his very thought. “That’s a lot of potential sniper nests.”

Of all the buildings, two stood higher than the others, and therefore impressed Jonathan as the most likely candidates. He pulled his phone from his pocket and snapped pictures of each. One of them, due north of the park, and directly in line with where the podium would be, was significantly taller than the other, and it gleamed silver in the afternoon sun. The second building, north-northwest of the park, appeared to be fairly new and constructed of red brick.

“I know what you’re thinking, Dig,” Boxers said. “But the ones you’re looking at are both office buildings.”

“So was the Texas School Book Depository,” Gail said.

“And look how much good that did for Oswald. I’m just wondering how he’s going to get in and out in the middle of the day without being seen.”

“Remember how much these guys don’t like to surrender,” Jonathan reminded them. “Maybe getting away isn’t part of the long-range plan.”

“It’s always part of the plan,” Boxers said. “Even for people who claim it’s not.”

“Tell that to suicide bombers,” Gail quipped.

“Yeah, but they’re crazy.”

Jonathan laughed. “Do you remember last night? I could swear I saw you there.”

A police officer in the telltale white-on-black of the Uniformed Division of the Secret Service approached from the direction of the statue. “Can I help you folks?” he said.

“What’s going on here?” Gail said. “What are they building?”

“The president’s speaking here tomorrow,” the cop said. His name tag identified him as Greenwood. “I need to ask you to move on. We’ll be buttoning it up soon.”

“Buttoning it up?” Boxers asked, playing dumb tourist.

Greenwood reacted the way people often did the first time they spoke with Boxers, with a silent Holy shit, you’re big. But he covered well. “That means we’ll be securing the scene.”

“But you said he’s speaking tomorrow,” Jonathan said, throwing his own hat into the thespian ring. “Why shut it down now?”

“In part so I don’t have to answer questions like this.” Greenwood said it with a smile to take the edge off, but there was no doubting his seriousness. Clearly, this was a guy who dealt with a lot of nosy tourists, and he knew how to walk the rope between friendly and official. “There’s a lot more to be done. We gotta bring in mags and dogs. Screening of guests begins two hours before the speech. All of that is a lot easier to do when it’s just the people who are supposed to be here.”

“So, if we’re in line by, say, seven, can we get in to hear him speak?”

The cop gave a tolerant chuckle. “Um, no. Invitation only, I’m afraid.”

“Is that wise?” Jonathan asked. “I mean the whole thing? I know I probably shouldn’t talk about this sort of thing-especially to a Secret Service agent-but with all the killings, should the president be staying inside?”

“First of all I’m not an agent-”

Jonathan knew that, but thought a little naivete could play to his benefit.

“-and that’s a call that the president makes. I just make sure that no one hurts him.”

“Well, God bless you for that,” Gail gushed.

Greenwood blushed.

“Can I get my picture taken with you?” Gail asked.

Now he was embarrassed. “Me? What for?”

“You’re the very first Secret Service man I’ve ever talked to. We go back to Iowa in three days, and I want a remembrance.”

Suddenly self-conscious, Greenwood glanced over his shoulders, then said, “Sure.”

“Can we go to the stage?”

“Ah, no,” he said.

“Well we can get closer, can’t we?” She started leading the way up the aisle.

After about ten paces, Greenwood said, “That’s close enough,” and she stopped.

Jonathan thought this was brilliant. He used his cell phone camera to take the pictures, and when he was done, he had four photos he could use to judge the best firing lanes for the sniper to use.

Jonathan and his team got three rooms on the same floor at the Hilton Garden Inn in Arlington, about a mile from the Marine Corps War Memorial. After a cursory sweep for listening devices-Jonathan knew it was paranoia on his part, but it was well-earned paranoia-they got Venice on the phone and started stitching a plan together.

Venice used the pictures to find addresses for the two buildings Jonathan was most concerned about. The tallest one was indeed tall, clocking in at thirty-one floors. Located at 1101 Coolidge Avenue, just barely on the Virginia side of the river. “There was actually some controversy over building this one,” she said. “It’s so much taller than any other buildings that people objected.”

“That’s fascinating, Ven,” Jonathan said, meaning exactly the opposite. He paced the room while Boxers sat perilously far back in a desk chair that clearly had not been designed with him in mind, and Gail sat propped against pillows, her legs crossed on the spread in front of her.

The other building, on North Loudoun Street, rose a paltry twelve stories, but it also sat atop a hill that gave it a commanding view of the kill zone. “Like the Coolidge Avenue building, this one is strictly commercial, and is home mostly to defense contractors.”

“I still don’t get why you’re so quick to dismiss the apartment buildings,” Gail said.

“I’m not dismissing them. They’re just not the perches I would choose. Ven, you’re cross-referencing the names of the apartment tenants with all things Copley, right?”

“Didn’t you ask me to?” she said.

“Yes.”

“Then what does that mean?”

Jonathan mouthed to Gail, It means she’s doing it.

Over the course of the next hour, Jonathan piled more and more on Venice. As a practical matter, it was impossible to go door-to-door through multiple buildings surveying for a shooter that they weren’t one-hundred-percent certain was even going to be there. They needed something-any bit of data-to winnow the list to a manageable size.

“You know this is going to take hours, right?” Venice said as the spitballing session ended.

“What, you want overtime?” Jonathan poked.

“Just appreciation,” she said. “I have no life, after all. I live to serve.”

She was being ironic, but Jonathan knew she was speaking the truth. “Can we be done for a while? I need rest.”

“What time do we reconvene?” Venice asked.

“Not later than six, but right away if you get something hot.”

“No,” Boxers said. All heads turned to him. “I need to sleep. I don’t need to get up again at two-freaking-thirty because you think there’s an interesting tidbit I need to hear. Make it six o’clock. We’re less than a mile from anyplace that can matter.” He stood and when he got to the door, he turned and ostentatiously placed his hand on the grip of his Beretta. “I’m going to put the do-not-disturb sign on my door, and I’m going to shoot anyone who ignores it.”

He left.

“Sounds like we’re in recess,” Venice said. “I’ll use my best judgment in calling you, Dig. Get some rest.”

The line when dead.

Jonathan shut down his computer and did his best seductive crawl across the bed toward Gail. When he arrived, he placed his head on her lap and gently stroked her leg. “What would you like to do?” he teased.

“Not what you’re thinking,” she said.

He rolled over to look at her face. “What, then?”

She stroked his hair from his forehead and gave a little smile. “You’re such a little boy,” she said. “It’s all a game to you.” Her teasing tone seemed dissonant with her very serious expression.

“What are we talking about?”

“All of it.” She rolled her hips to eject his head from her lap and she stood. “Life. Your job. Everything’s a game to you.”

Jonathan sat up. “You say that as if it’s a bad thing.” “Jon, we killed people last night. I murdered a young man in the woods just because he happened to walk into the wrong place.”

“You killed him before he could kill you,” Jonathan countered. “That’s hardly murder.”

She brought her hands to the top of her head, as if to keep it from exploding. “That’s it for you,” she said. “That’s as complicated as the world is.”

He shrugged. “It’s not as if I haven’t been around the block a few times. I know right from wrong, and I know life from death. Life is better.”

“Is it?” she said. “Is living with this kind of guilt on my conscience really part of the good life?”

An alarm sounded in Jonathan’s head. “Jeez, Gail, it was self-defense. We killed a lot of people last night, and they were all self-defense.”

“Not according to the law.”

“Oh, forget the law.”

She looked stunned. “Really? That’s all you’ve got? Forget the law?”

“We’ve met, right?” He extended his hand in greeting.

“Hi, I’m Jonathan Grave. I save lives for a living.”

“I don’t need your sarcasm, Jon. You also kill people for a living.”

“I’ve always killed people for a living.”

“It’s not the same, and you know it.”

“It is the same,” Jonathan countered. “That’s the simplicity that you don’t see. Ask Pablo Escobar’s family if it makes a difference that the guy who pulled the trigger on him was operating with permission from Uncle Sam. Dead is dead.”

“There’s-” She cut herself off and paced a bit, gathering her thoughts. “In a nation of laws, individual citizens do not get to make the decision who lives and who dies.”

“Wrong again. I spent nearly two decades of my life killing bad guys by order of the individual citizen who happened to be commander in chief.”

“With the constitutional authority to do so.”

Jonathan gaped. “So every bozo who’s occupied the Oval Office is somehow endowed with more wisdom than you or me or the average guy on the street? I don’t buy it.”

“Presidents have the authority,” she repeated.

“And I have the ability.”

“So, what makes you different than a punk murderer on the street? The elements of the law are the elements of the law. I swore an oath, Digger.”

He felt as if he’d been slapped. “I don’t know what to say. I just know I’m on the side of the angels.”

She walked to him and allowed herself to be enfolded in his arms. “Jon, I love you,” she said.

A whole new warning bell clanged in his head. “Why do I feel there’s a ‘but’ at the end of that statement?”

She released her arms, and took a step back. “But I don’t know if I can keep doing this.”

“You mean saving lives?” He said it with a wink.

“If everything we suspect turns out to be right, we’re going to kill again tomorrow,” she said.

He considered that. “Probably,” he said.

She cocked her head. “Only probably?”

Jonathan inhaled deeply. “The asshole we’re looking for has killed a lot of people. Dozens.”

“So we’ll be judge, jury, and executioner.”

Jonathan thought it through for a long time. Finally: “Yes.”

Gail grabbed his face gently with both hands and pulled his mouth to hers.

“Good night,” she said. She closed the door to the adjoining room as she left.