Parallax View (27 page)

“Never better,” he
lied. He didn’t know exactly how Tracie was planning to stop the assassination
scheduled for today, but he knew she needed help, and the only way she might
even consider letting him ride along was if she thought his headache had
disappeared.

“Liar,” she said
mildly.

“Listen,” he said,
to change the subject quickly, “what’s the plan for today?”

“Well, let’s see,”
Tracie answered, cupping her chin in her hand and pretending to think. “Dress
up in my new outfit, have breakfast and, oh, I don’t know, maybe foil an
assassination plot. You know, the usual.”

She was keeping
things light but Shane could sense her tension. “I don’t understand,” he said.
“You know where the shooter is going to be—on the roof of that insurance
building—but how in the world are you going to access it? The building will be
locked down tight as a drum, won’t it? And for that matter, how is the
Russian
going to get into position? Won’t he be spotted?”

“All good
questions,” Tracie answered. “Undoubtedly the buildings have been swept in
anticipation of the president’s visit, but the sweep will have been done
yesterday and it will have been routine, matter-of-fact. As far as we know,
there is no reason for the Secret Service to suspect anything might be wrong.
And don’t forget, this is Washington, DC—presidential movements are routine
here.

“Once the sweep
has been completed,” she continued, “it will be a relatively easy thing for the
shooter to access the roof of the building. This hit has been in the works for
weeks, if not longer, so either someone will have been paid off—say, a
maintenance man or janitor—or a master key will have been bought or made. The
guy dresses like he belongs, nobody notices him. It will be pretty easy,
really.”

Shane sipped his
coffee and thought about it. Made sense. “But what about you? How are
you
going
to get at him?”

“Exactly the same
way,” she said. “I’m going to look like I belong. That’s where this new suit
comes in.” She twirled. She was a natural at modeling and Shane wondered if
there were things in her past she might have glossed over. He wolf-whistled and
beckoned her closer and she smiled. “Sorry, big boy, we don’t have time for
what you want. I’ll have to take a rain check.”

“I can guarantee
it would be quick,” he said with a smirk. “But I understand.” Then, “So, you’re
going to pretend to be an insurance exec or something? Won’t it be obvious to
everyone who works there that you don’t belong? That nobody knows you?”

“You’re on the
right track,” she said, “but I’m not going to be an insurance employee. I’m
FBI. That way, it’s perfectly natural no one knows me. Meet Special Agent
Maddee James,” she said with a demure curtsey.

Shane nodded.
“Brilliant. But how are you going to get around the fact that you have no ID?
Isn’t that the first thing the insurance big shots are going to ask for when
you walk in there?”

“Who says I don’t
have any ID? This isn’t my first rodeo, cowboy.” She reached into the backpack
filled with the items she had liberated from the safe-deposit box outside New
York City and rummaged around for a moment. “Ah,” she said, and lifted out a
laminated plastic card.

“Let’s see,” he
said.

She strutted over
to the bed, all business now, the stern FBI persona in place.

He examined the
card. “Federal Bureau of Investigation” was stamped across the top in gold
lettering set against a blue background. A small head shot of Tracie appeared
on the right side, unsmiling, staring directly into the camera. Her hair was
pulled back from her face and she looked ready to step out of the picture and arrest
someone. On the left side of the card was the FBI seal, with identifying
information, including her “name,” Special Agent Madison James, inscribed in
the space between the photo and the seal.

Shane examined it
for a moment and then handed it back, shaking his head. “Planning a second
career?” he asked doubtfully.

“This ID, along
with some other stuff I retrieved, was my backup plan. All operatives have them—at
least they do if they’re smart. It’s the first thing you learn: if things fall
apart, you’d better be prepared to disappear.”

“Except you’re not
using your ID to disappear.”

“Don’t worry,” she
said, “it’s not my only one, and Maddee James is not my only identity.”

He stared at her,
amazed, trying to determine whether he was more attracted to her or creeped out
by her.
It’s not even close,
he thought.
Attracted wins in a
landslide.
“You’re definitely the most unusual date I’ve ever had,” he
finally said.

Tracie smiled and
placed the ID card into a small plastic flip-holder with the identifying information
facing out, then slid the holder into the breast pocket of her suit. She was
now Special Agent Maddee James. “That’s what all the boys say,” she answered,
and walked away, hips swaying. She turned her head and winked.

“I’m coming with
you,” he told her retreating figure, and she stopped.

After a moment she
turned to face him. “You can drive,” she said, surprising him with her lack of
resistance. “But you’ll drop me off a block from the insurance building and
then stay with the car. No matter what happens. You’ll wait for me and then
drive us away when the job is done.”

Shane grinned and
she said, “Do you understand me? You stay with the car no matter what happens.”

“You can count on
me, babe,” he said.

“I want to hear
you say it. Repeat after me:
I give my word I will stay with the car, no
matter what
.”

Shane said, “I
give my word I will stay with the car, no matter what,” having no intention
whatsoever of doing so.

Tracie’s eyes
narrowed and she looked at him critically. “Hurry up and get dressed, then.
It’s time to go.”

He slid off the
bed and began throwing on his clothes. His head pounded and throbbed and he
tried not to wince.

44

June 2, 1987

8:50 a.m.

Washington, D.C.

The traffic was moving steadily,
better than Shane would have expected for drive-time in the nation’s capital.
He followed Tracie’s directions, turning rights and lefts, and glanced at his
watch. Two minutes after the last time he had looked. “How far is it?” he
asked.

“We’ll be there in
ten minutes,” Tracie said.

“How do you know
where this place is?”

“I grew up in this
area. The Minuteman building is pretty distinctive, even in a city overflowing
with landmarks and historic buildings.”

Shane nodded. The
pounding in his head had leveled off, the pain distracting but bearable, at least
for the time being.  “How are we going to do this?” he asked.

“‘
We
are
not going to do anything,” she said. “
You
are going to do exactly as we
agreed. Park the car a couple of blocks away from the building and wait.”

“Fine,” he said,
annoyed. “How are
you
going to do this?”

“Reagan’s speech
is scheduled for ten,” she said. She was speaking confidently, without
hesitation, and it was obvious she had given the situation plenty of thought.
Shane wondered whether she had gotten any sleep at all last night. “The
building doesn’t open until nine, so—”

“How do you know
that?” he interrupted.

“I went out last
night after you fell asleep, remember? I did a quick drive-by of the Minuteman
building after buying my outfit. Business hours are posted on the entrance.
Anyway, my plan is to arrive the minute the building opens. I’ll let the
manager know Special Agent James is on the case, so he doesn’t see me prowling
around and call the cops. Then I’m going to catch an assassin.”

“Just like that,”
Shane said skeptically.

“Just like that.”

“How do you know
where he’ll be?”

“I don’t, but he
had to have gotten into the building last night. He would have needed the time
to set up. Once his preparations were complete, he probably napped in an empty
office or something. But he’ll have to be in position on the roof before the
office workers begin to arrive, if only to avoid the risk of detection. I
should be able to surprise the guy and catch him flat-footed before President
Reagan even leaves the White House.”

Traffic was beginning
to bog down, and Shane checked his watch again. “Unless there are two of them,”
he said. “You can’t catch two guys by surprise.”

“You can if you do
it right,” Tracie said grimly, and he wondered whether she really believed
that.

Ahead, a traffic
light turned yellow. Shane slowed, thought about stopping and decided they
could make it. He accelerated into the intersection, right behind an old Buick
with badly rusting bumper.

Ahead and to his
right a flash of movement caught his eye, and Shane saw a child step out from
behind a parked car. The kid walked into the street without looking, directly
in front of the Buick, and Shane gasped in surprise. The Buick’s driver slammed
on his brakes a half-second later and Shane hit the brakes on the Granada. Both
cars slewed forward, tires squealing, and Shane watched as the kid disappeared
in front of the hulking mass of the Buick.

The cars shuddered
to a halt, the Granada somehow stopping before impacting the Buick. Shane
realized he was holding his breath and exhaled heavily. He felt a surge of
relief as the kid appeared on the other side of the Buick. The kid, maybe eight
years old, had darted away from the Buick and now stood in the middle of the
street, head swiveling wildly. He took advantage of a small break in the opposite
direction traffic and sprinted across the street in front of an oncoming yellow
taxicab and disappeared.

“Holy shit,” Shane
said, his voice shaking. He glanced over at Tracie just as she turned to look
at him. Her eyes widened in shock as she looked over his shoulder and he
whipped his head to the left just in time to see a blue pickup hurtling through
the intersection’s cross street. The driver had locked up his brakes but the
truck was moving much too fast to stop in time. He would T-bone them right in
the driver’s side door.

Tracie lifted her
left foot and slammed it down on his right, shoving the accelerator to the
floor. The Granada lurched forward and smashed into the rear of the Buick,
propelling it ahead a few feet, and then the pickup struck the Granada in a
shower of screeching metal and shattering glass.

The car spun on an
invisible axis and Shane felt his head bounce off the window and his headache
exploded anew. He was aware of Tracie screaming to his right, a short, sharp
sound, and then everything stopped and the interior of the car was quiet but
for a faraway-sounding hissing noise. Whether the sound was coming from the
Granada or the pickup truck he couldn’t tell.

Shane heard cars
screeching to a halt—he knew they were in the middle of the intersection and
the fear of a second car striking them flashed through his head. He tried to
clear the cobwebs and was vaguely aware of Tracie tugging on his arm. “Unbuckle
your seatbelt,” she said, her voice intense. “We have to get out of here.”

Shane nodded and
tried his door. It wouldn’t budge.

“Not your door,
mine,” she insisted. “Yours has been smashed. It’ll probably never open again.”
She pulled on his arm more insistently. “Come on, we have to leave
now.”

A man in a suit
pulled open the door on Tracie’s side. “Are you folks all right?” he asked, his
concern evident.

“We’re okay,”
Tracie said, slipping out the door as Shane worked the buckle on his seatbelt
and began sliding across the front seat behind her.

The driver of the
pickup stumbled onto the sidewalk. It was a kid, late-teens it looked like, and
he appeared uninjured. “I just looked down to change the radio station,” he
said, “and when I looked up, you were right in front of me. I swear I only
looked away for a second.”

“Are you okay?”
Shane asked.

The kid nodded.
“But my parents are going to kill me. This truck was a graduation present.”

“Come on,”
Tracie
repeated, her voice soft but firm. “We have to get out of here.”

The kid heard her
and said, “No, you can’t leave. We have to exchange insurance information.”

She ignored him
and started dragging Shane away from the two wrecked vehicles. “The police will
be here any second,” she whispered, “and we can’t be here when they arrive.”

“We can’t leave
the scene of an accident,” Shane said, closing his eyes for a moment against
the rejuvenated pain bouncing around inside his skull.

“We have to,”
Tracie insisted, speaking a little louder now that they were out of earshot of
the teenaged driver of the pickup truck, who had staunchly refused to leave his
vehicle. “We’re driving a stolen car, remember? I could eventually get this
straightened out through CIA, but it would take hours, and we’re—” she glanced
at her watch and swore softly, “—almost out of time. We might still be able to
make it, as long as we disappear before the cops arrive.”

They took three
more steps and then Shane froze as a DC police cruiser eased to the curb, light
bar flashing, stopping almost directly in front of them.

***

Tracie grabbed Shane’s hand and
began walking as casually as possible along the sidewalk, their path taking
them directly past the police car. The patrol officer stepped out of his
vehicle and she watched as his eyes bounced between the accident scene and
them, then back to the accident scene.

They were almost
past him when he swiveled his head and focused his gaze on Shane, his eyes
narrowing. Tracie wondered what had gotten his attention. Then Shane turned and
looked at her and she wanted to curse out loud. A thin line of blood had leaked
out from his hairline and begun zig-zagging down the left side of his face. He
must have cut his head in the accident. The injury was clearly not a bad one,
but it had been enough to draw the cop’s attention immediately.