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35

Luther Koskela had cleaned the window the day before, in order to see through it clearly. It was not a time of year to leave it open longer than need be, and for simply watching, clean glass was good enough. Now, wearing a stained, down-filled parka, he sat on the only chair in his room, watching through binoculars. It was 214 yards to the top step of the Bentham Avenue Unitarian Church. He'd measured the distance the day before with his laser rangefinder, and had set the 4X sniper scope accordingly.

The breeze was negligible. Given his marksmanship, and his single-shot Thompson/Center Contender, he could put a bullet through the center of the man's chest—or his forehead. But the chest was a larger target, and less apt to move out of the way as he touched the hair trigger. The soft-point slug would take care of the rest.

The church's front doors opened. Quickly Koskela stood, set aside his binoculars and opened the window, then knelt behind the gun rest he'd prepared, rather than use the window sill. It was best to have the muzzle completely inside the room, where it couldn't be seen. And even with the silencer, there'd be sound. Better it be inside too, the landlady being hard of hearing.

He watched through the scope now, instead of the binocs. It was ill-suited for watching—the field of view was small—but it was best to squeeze the shot off as soon as the guru showed himself, before he started down the steps. Parishioners began filing out, but the preacher hadn't appeared yet. He was probably doing his goodbyes and handshaking in the vestibule, Koskela decided, where it was warmer, which was unfortunate, because delivering his goodbyes in the doorway would have slowed the flow, providing a better shot.

People moved down the steps and along the walk to the parking lot next door. For one moment he thought he had his target. The color was right, and the height, but the man was older, and walked with a cane. Finally the flow thinned, then stopped. Someone came out, released the doorstops and closed the doors. Maybe, Koskela thought, they're going to feed the sonofabitch before he leaves. But he didn't really believe it.

He left the window open, but put down the rifle and picked up the binocs again. Feeling edgy. When the guru did leave, with no crowd, no last-minute words, no hands reaching to be shaken, his people would hustle him down the steps and into—

The car! Damn! If they'd been going to use the front exit, they'd have brought the car to the front curb to load their passenger! While he'd sat squinting through the scope, the target could have left by a rear door and be well on his way to Logan Airport! Obviously the guru had a professional security team; if he didn't, he'd be dead by now. They would analyze, foresee risks, and take steps to reduce them.

Or—he still might be inside having coffee and cake with his hosts. They wouldn't bring the car to the curb until he was ready to leave. The car would be the signal. When it stopped, he'd pick up the rifle again.

Luther waited thirty minutes more, then stood and closed the window. The room was cold now, and he felt sure the dove had flown. Still he sat and watched for another quarter hour without the binocs.

Finally he grunted, picked up the rifle and stroked its stock. "Sorry, buddy," he murmured. "No action today. Whoever his security chief is, he knows his job.

"But we'll get him, you and me. It's just a matter of time." I'll have to watch the money, though, he told himself. You can go through a lot of it fast, chasing someone around the country.

He'd rent a few minutes of computer time, call up Ngunda's tour schedule, select another promising town, go there and find a place to live. Maybe get a job of some kind—the government was opening public works projects—and set things up again. Once more he patted the stock, murmuring, "It's you and me, buddy." Then he broke the rifle down, put it in his suitcase, and began to pack his few clothes.

* * *

"Millard," Florence Metzger said to the man in her phone screen, "I was just informed you've filed criminal charges against Millennium. What's that about?"

The voice on the other end spoke patiently. "I'm sorry, Madam President, I presumed you'd read my summary report. When their security people found the device, they should have informed us immediately, per the Anti-Terrorism Act. Notified our Boston office. Which in turn would have notified the local police, and a team from each would have gone to the site, to disarm the device and investigate."

"And that's it? That's the sum total of your complaint?"

There was a silence of several seconds.

"Hello, Millard? Are you all right?"

"Yes, I am, Madam President. I don't know what you want me to say."

"A simple yes or no would help. I did read your summary report, but it seemed to me there had to be something more behind it."

She took a deep breath and let it out. "Look, I'm neither a law enforcement veteran nor a lawyer. Not being a lawyer probably helped get me elected. But I wish to hell you'd used some common sense, or talked to someone who does, before filing charges.

"Your report described the bomb as requiring a remote firing device. So then what? When Millennium's security people found it, they'd naturally disarm it on the spot. Right? And right after that they phoned the Boston police, who notified your local office. So suppose they hadn't disarmed the bomb. It would have been half an hour before your people got there. The goddamn thing could have been detonated by then. Did you think of that?"

Again she didn't wait for a response. "And when the Boston police notified your office, what did they say? Were they upset? Not the way I heard it, and I just talked to the police commissioner there. He agreed. Disarming it at once was quote: 'a timely and necessary precaution,' end quote.

"So. What would have happened if Millennium had called, and then waited for your people to arrive? There'd have been a fleet of police cars racing through the streets with sirens yowling, at an hour when people were driving to church. And when the police got there, they'd have cordoned off the building, stirred up the whole neighborhood, and cancelled the church service."

"There is the law," the man answered stiffly.

She ignored him. "Furthermore, I asked the commissioner about the qualifications of the Millennium man who'd disarmed it. The name didn't mean doodly to me, but he said the man is one of the foremost bomb experts in the world, for chrissake! Did you know that?"

There was no answer.

"I also asked the commissioner if the crime site had been compromised. He said not by Millennium's security team. The place had been tracked through by others before the bomb was found—it was a hallway, after all—but Millennium's people had kept subsequent disturbance to a minimum. He said the whole thing had been handled very professionally."

She eyed Forsberg with more curiosity than irritation now. "Have you ever heard of the evaluation of importances, Millard?" When he didn't answer, she continued. "Since you haven't seen fit to respond intelligently to my questions, when you answered at all, I've concluded you don't take professional criticism well. So I'm going to dictate a job report on you, expressing my serious reservations about your competence and your judgement. Because frankly, Millard, you acted like a damned robot, instead of a sentient human being. Meanwhile you'll be receiving an order from the Attorney General to withdraw your charges."

She glared at the screen. The face looking back was stiff with indignation and suppressed anger, and she cut the connection, thinking she'd overreacted again. "Hell," she said aloud, "he'll resign and go straight to the Senate with it. But what else could I do with someone like that?"

"I'm sure you'll handle it." Willem Enrico Groenveldt was smiling wryly at her from a chair. She'd forgotten he was there.

"I read the summary report too," he said. "Before you did, while your back was being worked on. It didn't say how Millennium found the bomb. Considering where it was, it's remarkable it was found at all. I'd think dogs would have trouble smelling something situated like that."

The President frowned. "I never thought to wonder," she said, and looked at him appreciatively. "Hank, you're a lawyer, and you also think. How'd you like to be Acting Director of the FBI?"

He laughed. "I'm utterly unqualified. Besides, I already have a job. I'm the personal aide of the President of the United States." He paused. "I do have another question though. Is there any particular reason you decided to intervene in this? Besides the fact that Forsberg went off half-cocked."

Her look turned thoughtful. "Three of them," she said. "First, no harm came of what Millennium did. And secondly, the FBI has worked hard to upgrade their public reputation. This would filthy it up again, especially since Millennium's Ladder and Hand and Bailout projects have earned so many points with the public."

"That sounds to me like two reasons, Madam President. What's the third?"

She sighed. "The third is one of the major financiers of Millennium. I've known him since college; in fact he once asked me to marry him. Biggest mistake I ever made was to turn him down, but my girlish taste ran to hunks. Large hunks!"

Her gaze was direct, calm. "And I trust him implicitly, as I do you. He wouldn't be pumping millions into Millennium unless he was damned sure it was straight, from top to bottom."

She paused, examining her nails. "I wonder if Bill Foley would take the job? Because whether or not Millard Forsberg resigns, I'm going to replace him."

"Who is Bill Foley?"

"The Boston police commissioner. But he's probably got too much sense to work for me."

* * *

The phone rang. Thomas Corkery set aside his book and answered, knowing by the caller ID who was on the other end. He touched a key, and a picture popped onto the small screen.

"You're ill-advised," Corkery said, "to be calling me like this."

"What happened? Ngunda Aran should be dead! You were paid a total of $12,000 to get the job done. My money sources are going to demand either performance or their money back!"

"Jack, Jack! I'm surprised at you. After all these years in the murdering business, you still haven't grasped how easily these things go askew. You're too impatient with other men's work, Jack. Impatient! Your trouble is, you've always been a sender. Ye've done precious little wetwork yourself. If any."

"Are you calling me a coward, Corkery?"

"I'm calling you impatient and inexperienced." Corkery grinned into the visual pickup. "And touchy. There's that, too."

He paused, but Russell was too upset to take advantage of it, and the hit man went on. "By the by, you're obviously back from Rome, and I've heard nothing of the Holy Father's demise. How long do you suppose they can keep it quiet?"

Russell glared.

"Ah well. No doubt something happened, something unforeseen, and you had to cancel. No need to apologize; such things happen. The next try may work. Or the third. The third's the charm, you know."

Corkery hung up, chuckling.

 

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