J.A. Konrath / Jack Kilborn Trilogy - Three Scary Thriller Novels (Origin, The List, Haunted House) (65 page)

T
om tried his best to sleep on the flight, but exhausted as he was, his mind wouldn’t allow it. There was too much to think about.

Even if they did pull it off—if they could save both the President and the Vice President, it wouldn’t be over. Stang would simply try again. The man had too much money and power. Out of morbid curiosity, Tom had accessed the FBI Most Wanted List on his laptop, and wasn’t surprised to find himself on it. The others were as well. Unless they all desired to spend the rest of their lives hiding, surfacing only to stop assassination attempts, they had to end this.

Tom knew of two ways; killing Stang and son or gathering evidence. Since he was a cop and not a hit man, the choice was made for him. They would pay the former Senator another visit and try to find all of Harold’s notes on the cloning experiment. Maybe then they’d have enough to convince the authorities.

Of course, that also meant going public, and Tom wasn’t sure he could handle that. He was still having some trouble dealing with the fact that he was Thomas Jefferson. Once the world found out, the media attention would be never-ending. He would no longer be an average guy with an average job—he would be outed to celebrity status and become public domain. Tom Mankowski would no longer exist. While that might work for Joan, who already had a career in the spotlight, it wasn’t what Tom wanted out of life.

Of course, all of that was assuming they’d actually live through this.

He turned to Joan. She was sleeping, her head against the window.
Remarkable woman,
he thought. Strong, pretty, successful, smart, funny. Under different circumstances, she never would have given him the time of day. But fate, if you could call it that, threw them together and Tom sensed that she felt the same pull of attraction that he did.

Tom didn’t put too much stock in that; crisis situations tended to heighten emotion. Joan was a woman who really did have everything. What could Tom possibly offer her? Kids and a little house in the suburbs? That’s what she went to LA to get away from.

As if the situation was complicated enough, add some hormones to the mix.

Tom closed his eyes, thinking over their plan. It lacked the elegant simplicity of Abe’s idea. There were too many things that could go wrong, cause them to fail. Hopefully, they’d prepared for them, but real life tended to pay scant attention to plans, no matter how well thought-out.

Disaster scenarios coursed through his head—failing to save the President, getting arrested, getting killed. He tried to block them out, but couldn’t. If they failed, there could easily be a nuclear war in the immediate future.

Something touched Tom’s shoulder. He opened his eyes. Joan had switched positions, her head now resting on his arm. She snored softly. He lifted up the armrest between them and put his arm around her. She nuzzled against him, and all the bad thoughts were wiped from his head. He was asleep a few minutes later.

They arrived at Mirabel-Montreal Airport at a little after eleven in the morning, Eastern Time. Tom had seen so many terminals in the last few days that they were all beginning to blur together. This one had the distinction of being bilingual. All of the signs and all of the announcements were in French as well as English.

Joan looked good, certainly not like someone who had just spent eight hours on a plane. Somehow she’d managed to climb over his seat and freshen up without waking him. Her hair and make-up were pristine, and her blouse was wrinkle free. In contrast, all Tom had done to start the day was splash some cold water on his face and brush his teeth with his finger.

Joan handed the Custom’s Agent her passport, and Tom pulled out his Driver’s License.

“And how long do you plan to stay in Canada?”

“A week,” Joan answered.

“Business or pleasure?”

“Pleasure.”

“Do you have anything to declare?”

Joan nudged Tom with her elbow. “The gentleman does.”

Tom raised an eyebrow. “What do I want to declare?”

Her smile was full wattage. “Independence.”

Tom resisted the urge to groan. “How long have you been waiting to say that?”

“All flight. That was the high point of my entire week.”

“Better than that movie deal you just landed?”

“Sometimes it’s the little things.”

He thought about her snuggling next to him on the plane. “Can’t argue with that.”

They located the rental car place and got wheels, and then took a room at the Montreal Ramada, using the name Mr. and Mrs. Johnson. If Tom had any allusions about sharing a room with her, they were thwarted when Joan suggested they get a double.

“We can each have a bed.”

Even though she looked bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, Joan insisted on a shower. Tom went through the phone book and located six local fire departments. He jotted down their numbers. Then he found a nearby copy shop and noted the address.

There were still three hours before the shindig was to begin, but already the police were out in force. On a drive-by, Tom counted at least a dozen uniforms and plainclothes cops swarming around the entrance. Also standing vigil were several Secret Service agents, complete with Ray Bans and earpieces. A block away, three Mounties on horseback waited on the corner.

As Tom had expected, they’d never be able to get very far into the building, let alone the room where the President was speaking.

After Tom took a quick shower, they stopped at a nearby restaurant and located the pay phone by the restrooms. Tom made sure it worked, and then copied down the number.

Their next stop was a department store, where they got a digital camera. From there it was on to the copy place Tom had found in the phone book. Like its American counterpart, it offered a variety of services. Tom rented some computer time and got to work.

An hour later, they had business cards with the restaurant pay phone number printed on them. Using the camera, they also made and laminated some picture IDs, complete with the Canadian logo.
Enbridge.
Tom punched holes in them and attached some alligator clips. He also bought a clipboard, and spent a few minutes hunting through the various waste baskets in the store, stuffing it with official-looking papers.

Back at the hotel, Joan showed him how to work the meter. It was a technical-looking piece of equipment the size of a portable radio, complete with dials, switches, lights, and a red needle.

“It’s from the movie
Galaxy Invaders.
The heroes used it to detect the heat given off by the alien.”

“It detects heat?”

“It doesn’t detect anything. It’s phony. See this button? Press it and the needle jumps and the red light blinks. This button here makes it beep. The rest are decoration.”

Tom hefted the prop by the handle, waving it to and fro, pressing the buttons on the sly to make the needle jump. While he practiced, Joan unpacked her suitcase.

“I hope this fits. I guessed you were a 42 long.”

Joan tossed over a bright orange jumpsuit. Tom inspected it. Not only was his name embroidered on the vest below the
Enbridge
logo, the logo was also on the back.

“This is perfect.”

“Got you this too.”

She tossed Tom a white hard hat, also with the logo. They shrugged their jumpers on over clothing, as they were meant to be worn. Tom noticed that they even had some grease marks on them, appearing as if they’d been in use for a while. A nice touch.

“You ready?” Tom noted that even with the hard hat on, Joan looked cute.

“Ready. Are you sure you want to be the point man? I took some acting classes in school.”

“I’m a cop. I’m used to dealing with uncooperative people.”

Joan furrowed her eyebrows. “I just wish we had a back-up plan, in case this ones tanks.”

Tom felt the same way. But they didn’t have a choice. “We can do this.”

She nodded. Tom checked his watch. It was 3:48. Less than half an hour to save the President’s life.

They got on their way.

B
ert went to the railing and looked down upon the Senate Chamber one floor below him. From this vantage point, he could see everything.

The room was big and round, brightly lit. Rows of mahogany desks were arranged in a semi circular pattern, and Bert was surprised to see half of them empty. Occupying the remainder were Senators, running the gamut of race, age, and sex. Their dress was as varied as they were, three piece suits to business casual. They drank coffee and bottled water and had little side conversations with each other and their aides while a voice thundered over the loud speakers in a monotone that sounded quite bored.

Elsewhere, activity. Interns and messengers coming and going, a group in a box off to the side that included some reporters and photographers, most of whom looked supremely disinterested. Several video cameras were in operation, recording everything for C-SPAN.

Not what Bert had been expecting. Perhaps he’d harbored images of important men in robes making grand speeches that held the audience in rapt attention. This was more like a college seminar, except less formal.

Bert turned his attention to the central dais. Sitting above the Senate was the Vice President, holding what looked like a white rock in his hand. Bert figured it was a gavel. There were several people on the tier below him, and Bert could see someone standing diligently in the rear that was undoubtedly Secret Service.

Bert looked around the gallery where he stood. It was a large hallway that wrapped around the Chamber, kind of like a long, circular balcony. Several dozen onlookers milled about, many staring down at the proceedings, but just as many whispering to each other or walking around. Bert counted four Capitol Policemen among them, and assumed there were more he didn’t see. Everything was relaxed, casual. Roy caught his eye and gestured for him to come over. He was standing next to a large bust of a familiar face. Thomas Jefferson.

“Almost time.”

Bert checked his watch. Eleven minutes after four. They had less than three minutes. Bert searched for Abe in the crowd, but couldn’t find him.

• • •

Fifteen minutes earlier, in Montreal, Tom had dropped Joan off at the restaurant and was attempting to drive through the large group of people that had gathered around the hotel storefront. Waiting for the President to make his exit, Tom guessed. They were being kept off the sidewalk and away from the entrance by velvet ropes. Tom honked, cutting a swathe through the crowd, eventually edging the car up to the hotel. He was instantly surrounded by cops and the Secret Service.

“What the heck is going on?” Tom made a show of looking around.

“Sir, you’ll have to move your vehicle.”

Tom pointed to the ID clipped to his chest.

“I’m from Enbridge Natural Gas. Just got a call there’s a leak in the building.”

An agent, eyes impenetrable behind his sunglasses, consulted a clipboard. Then he spoke quietly into his lapel mike.

“What’s going on here?” Tom made a show of looking around him. “Some kind of party?”

“The US President is speaking.”

“Hey, buddy, I don’t care who’s speaking. I need to get some readings.”

“You’ll have to wait in the car until you’re cleared to enter the building.”

“I don’t need to enter the building. I need to check the foundation first.”

The secret service guy was impassive.

“Look, if you don’t let me check for a gas leak, you’re endangering this entire block. Once the saturation reaches five percent, it’s flammable. Anyone in there lights a cigarette, plugs in a toaster, rubs their socks on the carpet—BOOM!”

The agent made his decision and allowed Tom out of the car. Tom grabbed his prop meter and followed him to the front of the building. When he got there, two men frisked him.

“What the hell?”

They searched his pockets and came out with the phony business cards. Tom watched as one of the agents called the phone number on his cell while another examined his gas detector.

“Careful! That’s sensitive equipment.”

The agent on the phone asked several questions. Tom had to assume Joan was following the script, answering as Enbridge Natural Gas and confirming both the leak and Tom. When he hung up he gave Tom a small nod.