Down Among the Dead Men (49 page)

Leaving around six on Thursday, Frank and Koop head towards the airport before losing any tail they may have. Once sure they're unobserved they head east and get to the turnoff at Banning by eight-fifty. They stop at an outlet mall en route and buy hiking gear at a sports and camping store. Koop picks up a compass and a detailed map of the San Jacinto trails.

They take the car as far as it will go and park it just off a trail road leading up from Idyllwild. They change into their new gear and start the climb towards the peak. Hot as it was at the mall it's almost cold this high up the mountain.

'Jesus,' says Frank. 'I didn't think it'd be as cool as this.' He's glad of the fleece jacket that seemed such a ridiculous purchase at the mall.

'We're climbing to almost ten thousand feet,' says Koop. He checks the map almost constantly, glad he bought the most detailed he could find. It would be easy to get lost up here.

As they climb Frank feels his lungs struggling to extract enough oxygen from the thin air. It's not unpleasant but already everything is taking just that little bit of extra effort. After an hour hiking he feels like a smoker. Poor old Warren, God rest his cig-gobbling soul, would have needed oxygen just waiting in the car. The air is crisp
and the thickly forested mountain seems a world away from Los Angeles. If they weren't tracking a dangerous killer, Frank would have enjoyed it.

By eleven they're within a mile of the plateau. Ten minutes after that they're stopped by a parks ranger standing next to a 'trail closed' sign.

'Sorry, folks,' she says. 'No access to the cable car today. Invitation only.'

'That's OK,' says Frank. 'We're just hiking.'

'Where's that accent from?' says the ranger.

'England.' Putting on another accent is beyond Frank. It's easier just to tell the truth.

'You sound like the Beatles.'

Frank smiles but doesn't reply.

'What's the best way back down to Idyllwild from here?' says Koop. He unfolds his map and pretends interest while the ranger points out some good lookouts on the way down.

They retreat a few hundred yards down the way they came until they are out of sight of her.

'Why isn't there more security?' says Frank. He gestures at the two of them. 'Why didn't Noone come in this way?'

'Maybe he didn't come at all.' Koop takes a long look around. He points up the mountain. 'I think the main security will be focused on being close to the president's family. You know what it's like.'

Frank does know. Protection – complete protection – of anyone is an illusion. For the president, cocooned inside the house in Los Angeles and transported inside a rolling convoy every time he moves, there is a level of security that would stop most attacks. But when the president presses the flesh, or attends a rally, the risk appreciates steeply and anyone who has ever been involved in any sort of protection plan is aware that that's all it is: a plan. Frank's been involved in security preparations in Liverpool at various times and knows that much of it is conveying the idea that to attempt an attack is too risky. That's why the visual is so important. Armed officers, black uniforms, dogs, high visibility.

In the case of the First Family, at an event such as the Mount San Jacinto picnic, full protection is simply not an option.
With an unfenced outside location there are too many entry points, too many variables, for even the heavily resourced White House to plug with the help of local agencies.

Locating the event on the plateau helps. Access via the cable car from the Palm Springs side means that they can at least control the majority of the visitors. Anyone coming in uninvited from the west will be turned away.

If Frank had been in control of security he would identify the easiest trails first and close them off, just as had happened a few minutes ago. That would be the first level; park rangers, local patrol officers, perhaps even volunteers from local organisations to pad out the manpower. At the next level there would be agents stationed at possible entry points. You may not be able to cover them all but you could have a presence. Anyone found at these entry points would be treated as hostile. The third ring would be on the plateau itself, where the concentration would be on establishing a perimeter around the central point. The final level of security would be the immediate vicinity of the First Family.

It wouldn't be easy. If Frank's right about Noone, he had come to the same conclusion. He must have found a way in but exactly what that is, Frank doesn't know. Unlike them, he's been planning this for some time.

They'll just have to walk in.

On the map Koop points out the trails that wind towards the plateau. 'They'll have people here and here and here,' he says. 'And then I'm guessing that there'll be agents in the forest but there's too much ground for them to protect it all. It'll be bad luck if we run into anyone.' Koop's finger traces an off-trail route. 'This is our route.'

'The fucking Gallows Drop one? No fucking way. We'll have to find another one.'

'TINA,' says Koop, setting off along the trail.

'What?'

'There Is No Alternative. Get moving. It'll be a doddle.'

Forty-Seven

Coming off the cable car, the whole damn thing almost falls apart when Noone's wheelchair grinds to a halt on the motherfucking exit ramp. The car attendant and a couple of cops push Noone and the heavy chair to one side as the rest of the passengers stream past. The attendant pats him on the shoulder and returns to the cable car leaving Noone with the cops.

'It done this before?' asks one of the cops. He's a big guy, fat around the middle but with experience in his eyes. He bends low and speaks in a precise way. Noone's only been in the wheelchair for an hour and he's already noticing how patronising almost everyone is. He has a moment's empathy with Kenny Hoy before remembering that he'd stabbed him in the eye and stuffed his corpse in the freezer.

'Sometimes,' says Noone. He lends a slackness to the tone, reinforcing the mistaken assumption that he is mentally impaired. It might be useful right now.

'Let me see,' says the second cop, a younger Hispanic guy. 'I'm pretty good at electronics.' He smiles paternally at Noone and bends to the area below the seat which houses the workings of the chair. Noone wonders what will happen if they start poking around there. What if there's some fucking cable or something running into the cushion? He fights the urge to run and forces an idiot grin onto his face.

'Hey,' says the younger cop from behind the chair. Noone can't see either of them. 'What do you think?'

'Try it.'

Noone feels something being pushed on the back of the chair and the machine gives a satisfying hum. He presses the control lever and it shifts forward.

'Yeah!' says the Hispanic cop. He leans over Noone and gives him a cartoon thumbs up. 'Looks like you're all set, buddy. Just had a loose wire back there.'

'Thanks,' says Noone. He shakes hands with both cops and pushes the control lever forward. To one side, next to the gift shop, is a lift which Noone takes down one level. From there he moves along a hallway to a set of double doors. An old woman holds them open as he approaches and Noone finds himself outside on a platform overlooking the plateau. The platform is thick with excited visitors, mostly children. Music is coming from somewhere below. A large green banner reading
Welcome CCC Picnicers!
flutters in the slight breeze.

'You know which way to go, honey?' says the old woman. She points to a wide concrete path that zigzags down the side of the slope. 'Down that way. You can't miss it. If you like I can get someone to help you?'

'That won't be necessary, ma'am,' says Noone. He salutes the old woman and turns down the path.

At the end of the concrete Noone arrives at a wide expanse of rolling grassland dotted with pine trees and granite boulders. Three white marquees without walls have been erected close to the path and a temporary disabled access platform has been installed to continue the path into the tents. There are people everywhere and, on a low stage in front of the tents, a jazz band is playing. Noone turns away from a TV camera which swivels his way but the cameraman is only working out some sort of shot. Here and there reporters are interviewing people. Noone feels there is an air of Christmas Eve about the place although that may simply be the crisp air and Alpine setting.

A group of children wearing some sort of semi-military uniform rush past in a blur of screams and excitement. A man with a bullhorn is calling out instructions to a group of organisers dressed in khaki.

'You OK, son?' A large man in his late sixties with a red face and a silver moustache is right up in Noone's face.

'Yeah, I'm good, thanks.'

'Because I can get someone to help you, if you'd like. Always happy to help a military man. You get the, uh, injury, in Iran?'

'You mean Iraq.'

'Yeah, Iraq, right.'

'No,' says Noone. 'Afghanistan.'

'You're a patriot, soldier,' says the old coot.

Noone can hardly wait to start shooting.

Forty-Eight

Gallows Drop must be close to a thousand feet straight down.

Frank wants to be sick.

They're so close to the picnic they can hear the music drifting in and out on the breeze. They have seen a couple of agents on patrol but by simply standing still and waiting until they passed by they are able to continue.

'Come on,' says Koop. Just forget about the drop. Concentrate on the distance.'

'That's what I'm fucking looking at, you fucking maniac!' Frank rubs a hand across his mouth and breathes heavily through his nose. 'Just look at the fucking thing! It's fucking massive! You'd have to be fucking . . . fucking . . . FUCK! Who the fuck is the fucking long jump champion?'

'You'll be fine.'

To be honest, now they're here, Koop's not sure they can get across. The gap is more like a chasm, a split between a monstrous cliff that effectively marks the end of this trail. From one side to the other Koop estimates the distance to be around two metres. Only an idiot would try to jump this.

'You jumped longer than that at school,' says Koop.

'Aye, into a fucking sandpit, dickhead!'

Frank approaches the edge, his legs weak, and looks down into the void. 'Sweet Jesus!' he hisses. 'There's no fucking way.'

Koop sprints past Frank and leaps across, his feet landing squarely on the other side.

'See?' he says. 'Easy.' He tries not to let Frank see his trembling hands. That had been fucking scary. 'Just don't think about it.'

Frank is shaking his head from side to side. 'Uh-nuh, no, no. Can't do it. No, no, no.'

Then, as Koop is considering jumping back across Gallows Drop, Frank strides purposefully away in the direction they've come from.

'Frank!' Koop hisses.

When he's twenty paces from the gap, Frank turns and sprints.

He can sense the loose gravel under his shoes giving way, can almost see the ledge he's on beginning to crumble and then the fatal stumble as his fingers try and fail to hold on to something solid. He imagines the fall as he spins down onto the rocks below. And then he sees Nicky, dead in the tunnels and then he's airborne. There is a flash of green glimpsed below and then he's there on the other side being grabbed by Koop.

'Fuck!' says Koop. 'I never thought you'd make it! That's a fucking
massive
gap! Massive!'

Frank half-runs, half-skips away towards the safety of a tree and vomits.

'That's the way,' says Koop. 'Get it all out.'

Frank flips Koop the finger and tries to control his breathing.

Koop looks at the map.

'I think we're inside the perimeter.'

Koop takes off his backpack and shoves it into a gap between two rocks. Frank, breathing a little easier now, stands upright and follows suit. Both of them take off their fleece jackets and stow them with the backpacks. In the khaki workpants and shirts they bought at the sports outlet they look like maintenance workers. Koop wishes he'd remembered a clipboard. It's an old truism that you can go a long way armed with a clipboard.

'Now we just walk like we belong here,' says Koop. He can see groups of children playing tag in a clump of trees about eighty yards away.

They walk down the slope and find themselves looking at the three white tents. There's a large crowd, maybe twelve hundred people, and even from a distance Frank can sense the anticipation.

They walk across the clearing and are soon enveloped in the crowd. A cop glances at them but it's nothing more than that. Frank
finds a woman handing out green CCC caps and he takes two. With them in place he and Koop are even less noticeable.

'What are we looking for?' says Koop.

'A tall psychopath with a gun. Should be easy to spot, I reckon.'

Inside each tent are several large tables stacked with food. Helpers are busy behind each table. There are a number of people in wheelchairs and one or two severely disabled people with their carers.

'Can't see any,' says Koop. He's about to say something else when a man using a bullhorn starts trying to assemble the crowd in the tents. High above the plateau at the cable car station there is movement, a buzz, people moving.

The First Family has arrived.

Forty-Nine

Noone, antenna twitching, adrenaline spiking, spots Keane and another guy he doesn't recognise almost as soon as they arrive in the clearing. It's pure chance seeing them. Noone can't work out if it's a good or bad thing.

He watches them pick up the baseball caps. Noone tries to keep as many people as possible between himself and Keane. How the fuck the guy has figured it out he doesn't know, but the fact is he's here. The text from JFK doesn't seem such a good idea now. Noone had never intended Frank Keane to be able to maintain his crusade for this length of time, only for him to put in an appearance in court, to testify to Noone's cleverness.

On the plus side, Noone's willing to bet Keane isn't armed. As long as he doesn't ID Noone – and given the cap, beard, hair and glasses, not to mention the fact that he's in a wheelchair – everything will be fine. Noone slides himself inside one of the tents and tries to put people between himself and Frank Keane.