The Foundation: Jack Emery 1 (15 page)

The movement had been enough to put the shot through McDowell’s neck, instead of the center of his head. He knew it would probably still be enough to do the job, but it was not the perfection he sought.

***

Jack froze. His mind was screaming in protest at the scene in front of him, only vaguely aware of his glass of Coke falling to the ground. Each second felt like an eternity, and all he could seem to recognize was the clunking of the ice on the floor and the slosh of the liquid on the carpet.

His immediate instinct in that first second or two was to run, but as the others in the suite began to scream and run away from the source of the violence, he stood still. His feet felt like they were set in cement, refusing to move forward, as much as his mind refused to let him run away.

A woman’s voice called out in distress: “Somebody fucking help my dad!”

Jack’s feet started to move, his vision widening and life speeding up again. Past the panicked guests who were rushing right at him, he saw several people huddled around a figure on the floor. He had a sinking feeling he knew who it was and what had happened. 
He had to help.

He turned to Celeste. “Get out of here!”

He didn't wait for an answer as he broke into a run. His legs moved faster with each step as he ran the length of the function room. A few times he had to push his way forcefully through the crowd, and the closer he got the more chaos there was. Jack’s mind had not had so much to process since China.

Ernest McDowell was on his back, writhing in pain and surrounded by blood. His daughter Sarah and a few others were crowded over him, while Peter Weston was shouting for help. When Jack reached Ernest’s side he fell to his knees. Ernest was gulping for air, but when he saw Jack his eyes bulged wider than Jack thought possible.

Jack grimaced. “Ernest, just take it easy, help is nearly here.”

Ernest tried to speak, but the gurgling sound that emerged from his throat sounded as if he were trying to suck all the air from the room.

“Where’s the fucking help, Peter? He’s going to bleed to death.” Jack looked up to Sarah. “And someone get her out of here, she doesn’t need to see this.”

Ernest coughed and tried to speak again, but all that came out was a gargling sound. Jack didn’t know much about medicine, but the very dark blood running down Ernest’s neck and mouth was not a good sign. Jack’s eyes widened in surprise as Celeste slid down beside him and put her hand over the wound to stem the bleeding.

“I told you to get out of here!” He stared at her. “It’s not safe!”

Celeste gave him a dark look. “He saved me too, Jack.”

“They’re here!” Peter’s voice sounded relieved. “The paramedics are here.”

Jack looked up. A pair of paramedics were rushing to Ernest’s side. One of them kneeled and took over from Celeste, placing a gloved hand over the wound. The other waved them all away.

“We’ll take it from here, everyone. You all need to step back.”

Jack started to climb to his feet and back away, but felt someone squeeze his hand. He looked down. Ernest was pressing his cell phone firmly into Jack’s hand. He grabbed it and looked around. Celeste had noticed and raised an eyebrow, but nobody else seemed to see as he slipped the bloodied phone into his pocket.

***

Less than three minutes after his shot had struck home, Chen had finished disassembling his rifle. He walked back to the access hatch and paused only to press a button on his cell phone. He put his hand on the hatch as he heard the small charges he’d placed at four locations around the stadium detonate. The explosions weren’t very large, merely designed to make a lot of noise and blow out smoke. They’d add to the gunshot and together be enough to send the crowd rushing for the exits faster than the police and venue security could handle. The confusion was his ticket out.

With one last check of his surroundings, making sure no trace was left of his presence, he opened the hatch. He looked down the ladder and saw that despite the mayhem of the past few minutes, the passage was deserted. He closed the hatch on the way down and grunted as he dropped the last few feet to the concrete below.

He put on a crumpled Yankees cap that had been in the case. He looked the part, complete with an old jersey. He walked quickly along the maze of passages that led him back to the main concourse, where he quietly joined the tidal wave of people rushing to the exits.

He saw a few police officers and security staff. They were trying hard to wrest back control of the situation, but they had no chance. They were too late to catch him. He was no longer vulnerable to detection. He’d packed up and left the scene flawlessly, now just another scared fan.

Within five minutes, one suspect suddenly became thousands. There would be an unparalleled manhunt, but with no DNA, footage or fingerprints, the job was complete. A few might remember the Asian Yankees fan with the briefcase, but for all that they may as well have seen Elvis.

Chen allowed himself a small, barely discernible smirk. For all the money spent on security, it was still easy. The art of killing was not complex once emotion was removed, it simply required thought and planning like any other worthwhile human endeavor. The engineer doesn’t build a bridge without a plan, nor should a killer pull the trigger. There had been no messy bomb killing hundreds, just a single round and a clean getaway. To Chen, it was another face filed away among many. While he was mad his shot hadn’t been perfect, he hoped the result was the right one.

Even the best got it wrong sometimes.

Jack was fascinated by the complex series of machines keeping Ernest alive. He’d watched them for hours, the monitors that bleeped, the screens with colored lines and an array of constantly changing numbers. Another machine—the respirator—inflated and deflated with its own rhythm, ensuring that Ernest continued to breathe.

Jack had been there from the moment Ernest exited surgery. The only others allowed into the suite were Peter Weston, Josefa Tokaloka and Ernest’s daughter, Sarah. They’d kept a constant vigil for the last day, sharing some dark jokes about the suite being big enough for all of them to move into permanently.

Nothing had changed with Ernest’s condition in those hours, all Jack had noticed was the increase in the number of well-wishers sending flowers, presents and other trinkets. It had been a constant stream. While the hospital had flexed their muscles and restricted the number of visitors, they seemed powerless to stop the avalanche of gifts.

He had spent hours searching through the cell phone Ernest had handed him. He knew that the phone must have some answers, given the energy Ernest had expended handing it to him. At first, he’d tried to unlock the phone using any date or number of significance he could find on Ernest’s Wikipedia page. None had worked, until he’d tried Sarah McDowell’s birthday. The problem was that there was so much on the phone it would take days or weeks to dig through everything and find what Ernest wanted found. Jack wouldn’t give up.

He sighed and looked away from the machines. He knew that his presence here would make no difference to Ernest’s recovery, but he didn’t leave. He was not a religious man, so there was no point in praying. So he waited and watched the machines keep Ernest alive. He owed it to the man who’d secured his release from China. Was this the price that had been paid? Was he the reason Ernest was lying there?

Jack heard the electric door behind him whir open. He turned to see Peter Weston entering the room with an armful of flowers and cards. Jack patted his pocket, making sure the phone was still there, then smiled sadly at Peter as he placed the gifts on a coffee table. Peter collapsed into the armchair next to Jack.

Peter looked up at him and rubbed his temples. “Still here?”

“Yeah, there’s been no change.”

“You can go home for a while. Nobody will think less of you.”

Jack shrugged. “I would. I owe him. Sitting here is hardly a big deal.”

Peter nodded and sank back into his seat. They sat in silence for several minutes. Jack considered telling Peter about the phone, but held off for now. Ernest had handed the phone to him, not to Peter, and he wondered if there was a reason. Maybe Ernest had distrusted Peter, in which case telling him about the phone would be a mistake.

Peter sighed, breaking Jack’s reverie. “Cops came by the office earlier.”

Jack nodded. “They came here again too. Just confirmed a few facts. I still don’t really understand it though. It was the sort of attack normally aimed at a president, except Ernest didn’t have the Secret Service by his side.”

“Homeland Security is saying terrorists, but I’m not buying it.” Peter shook his head. “He’s a prominent man, with a lot of enemies. The cops won’t find anything.”

Jack was silent as he watched Peter closely. He had a pained look on his face, especially when he spoke of the enemies Ernest had made. Jack considered that Peter had probably been at Ernest’s side when he’d made some of them. He made his decision, rummaged around in his pocket and pulled out the phone.

“It was a pro—had to have been. We do have one thing the cops don’t, though.” Jack held up the cell phone.

Peter’s eyes widened. “Where did you get that?”

“Ernest handed it to me as the ambulance crews rushed toward him. He was so intent on me having it, I’m convinced there’s something important on it.”

Peter inhaled sharply. “And is there?”

Jack shrugged. “No way to tell. There’s so much on it that it would take a dozen journalists a month to sift through it all.”

“Well, whatever information he wanted you to have, I hope you get to the bottom of it. Let me know if you want some help.”

“I’m sure you’ve got other things to worry about.”

Peter looked over at the still form of his boss, lying on the hospital bed. “Ernest being in a coma has caused some problems.”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s a few rumblings on the board. Nothing I can’t handle. Just certain individuals taking the opportunity to make waves while Ernest is incapacitated.”

Jack sighed. “Sounds like we’ve both got plenty to be getting on with. I just wonder if we’ll get anywhere.”

“What choice is there?”

“None. I owe Ernest too much to give up. I’ll keep searching through this phone until my thumbs bleed. We’ll get to the bottom of this.”

Jack sighed and closed his eyes. He was tired. He hadn’t slept properly since the shooting, and it was starting to catch up with him.

He woke a few hours later, looked around, and saw Peter asleep in the second armchair. After a few seconds’ thought, he decided to try his luck on the voicemails. He plugged his headphones into the phone and dialed.

“
You have no new messages
.” The voice was polite and feminine. “
To hear all saved messages, please press 3
.”

Jack pressed the button.

The first message played: “
Hi Dad, just wanted to make sure…”

Time passed slowly as the voicemail messages he listened to—or truthfully, half listened to—blended into one. He found it hard to believe that one man had so much contact with so many people. He dozed off again at one point, because he woke having dreamt of Erin. With a sigh, he pressed a button for the next message.

“
Ernest, we had a deal. Stop being a fool. You don’t have a lot of time left to make the right decision.”

“Bingo!”

***

Michelle sat on a plastic chair in the middle of the hardwood floor of the Georgetown University basketball stadium, home of the Hoyas. She kept a pleasant smile on her face as students, faculty and some members of the public filtered into the bleachers. The usual butterflies that fluttered in her stomach before a major speech were there again, made worse by the uncertainty of the situation. She’d be fine once she was underway.

When the crowd was settled, the dean of the Graduate School of Arts and Sciences introduced her and gave a brief biography of her career to date. Michelle kept the smile throughout, but her mind was focused on the events of the last few days. She’d planned this speech carefully around her run for Congress, Ernest McDowell’s death, and the fate of EMCorp. McDowell’s ongoing ability to breathe was a significant problem.

She’d decided that McDowell’s recalcitrance about their deal was too great a risk. With Anton dead, the Foundation cells under control, the war kicking along and the rest of her agenda ready to fly, the last thing she needed was problems from a geriatric business magnate. She’d put insurance in place for the control of EMCorp in the event of McDowell’s death, so she’d ordered Chen to do the job.

Unfortunately, he’d failed.

The audience broke into enthusiastic applause. She smiled broadly, stood to approach the lectern then thanked the dean. It was all a blur until she laid her speech notes on the lectern, brushed some imaginary dirt from her dress and looked up. Then there was clarity. She gave a small wave and waited for the applause to subside, then cleared her throat.

“Good evening. As you know, if not for a fatal street assault, my late colleague Anton Clark would have been addressing you tonight. So first off I’d like to acknowledge his contribution to American public life, and the enormous void that his passing has left. He was a fountain from which torrents of intellect flowed.”

There was more applause, subdued this time. If only they knew that every significant political event to strike the United States in the last few months was her responsibility—they’d storm the court and probably toss her severed head through the ring. It was a burden she carried gladly. There was nobody else who could put the country on the right path in such a manner.

“His death is one in a series of dire events that’s afflicted our country, and the world, in recent months. The death of so many Americans in Shanghai, the underhanded sinking of the USS
George Washington
without a declaration of war, and—in recent days—the mysterious shooting of Ernest McDowell. Worst of all, of course, is the war.”

She gazed into the crowd and was happy to see Sarah McDowell smile sadly in the front row, wiping a tear from her eye. Michelle knew that the next few lines would be the ones picked up by the television cameras. She glanced over carefully rehearsed words. It was the coming together of the remaining strands of her plan—with a few amendments, after Chen’s failure.

“These events have led me to ask some important questions of myself. I’ve reflected on what I can do to aid our country in the most desperate crisis we’ve faced since we had our finger over the button, ready to deal with a nuclear force hosted by Castro. All Americans should ask the same.”

She smiled straight at Sarah. While McDowell’s daughter had been the central plank of Michelle’s insurance policy, even with her father alive she was important. With Ernest McDowell in a coma, Sarah—beautiful and educated—became a massive lightning rod for public opinion. The public, and the EMCorp board, would fall in behind her.

“I’ve come up with two things. Firstly, I’ve ordered that much of the financial assets of the Foundation for a New America be spent purchasing a significant shareholding in EMCorp in the coming weeks. Despite the attack on Mr McDowell sending the share price tumbling, I want EMCorp to continue being a strong voice for America.”

Michelle took a deep breath.

“Secondly, as I seek a mandate from the people to join Congress, I promise that if elected, I will not be joining the legislative sewer that has passed for our democracy in the last decade, for which both major parties are responsible. Instead, and with the support of as many likeminded Congressional colleagues as I can find, I will be a strong and unyielding voice for bringing strength and leadership back to America. It is time to fix the problems and bring America back to greatness.”

This time the applause was thunderous. She made sure to give each of the cameras a good two-second look straight down the barrel. She held her hands up and waved the applause away, grinning from ear to ear. She waved again, then stepped away from the lectern and approached Sarah. The younger woman was beaming as they embraced. Michelle held the hug, to be sure that the cameras picked it up.

“Well done, Michelle, that was inspirational.” Sarah’s voice was soft enough only she could hear. “Thanks for the kind words about Dad.”

Michelle pulled away slightly and nodded. “I just hope he pulls through. His absence is the last thing the country needs right now.”

Michelle’s timetable had been pushed forward by Ernest McDowell’s double dealings, and complicated by Chen’s failure. With the looming purchase of a huge shareholding by the Foundation, and Sarah’s help, she was well placed to take control of the company when McDowell finally kicked the bucket. When he did, Sarah would become the star at the center of the story.

Sarah nodded. “I’m glad you’re investing in the company. Though the family business isn’t really my thing, it’s nice to have a friend until he pulls through.”