Politics of Blood (Gray Spear Society Book 8) (7 page)

Seferis raised his eyebrows. "You're actually threatening to kidnap the President right in front of him?"

"I'm threatening to save his life by any means necessary. But I'd like to avoid such disruptive measures, so I need you to swear you won't give me any grief."

He shook his head.

"You doubt my resolve?" Miss Pickenpaugh said.

"I think you're full of shit."

She took a gray phone from her pocket. It was much thicker than a normal phone, and the metal covering looked like armor plate. She dialed a number and put the phone to her ear.

"Hello," she said. "What's the authorization code for the ICBM's? I need the one the President uses. The World War Three code. Text it to me. Oh, send me the combination to his safe in the Oval Office while you're at it. Thank you."

She stared at the display on her phone. After a moment, she nodded.

She walked over and showed the message to Haley. He saw lines of numbers and letters in black and white.

"That's right," he whispered.

"It would be in everybody's best interest if Mr. Seferis did as he was told."

Haley felt renewed fear. This woman had access to information that was beyond top secret.

"George," he said, "swear an oath."

"Sir!" Seferis said.

"I believe Miss Pickenpaugh is being honest with us."

"She could be a terrorist."

"If that were the case," Haley said, "I'd already be dead. Clearly, she can do whatever the hell she wants. I might be too tired to think clearly, but I trust her. Promise me you'll cooperate. That's an order."

"But..."

Haley stared at Seferis.

"I promise," Seferis said finally.

Miss Pickenpaugh smiled. "That's excellent. You may leave now."

"Hey!"

"Just go," Haley said.

Seferis snarled and stormed out of the room.

"Boreas," Miss Pickenpaugh said. "Wait in the hall. I want to have a private conversation."

The giant man with gray hair nodded. "Yes, ma'am." He left in a more dignified manner.

She smiled at Haley, and this time, the expression was warm instead of frightening. "My real name is Ethel. As you just heard, my bodyguard is Boreas. That's a secret you can't share with anybody else. We're very careful with names in my organization, but I feel I can trust you."

She grabbed a small trash can from the corner of the room. She picked up the pieces of the broken coffee mug and threw them away. She was so quick her hand was just a blur. He couldn't believe his eyes.

"How can you move so fast?" he said.

She shook her head. "I can't talk about that."

"Are your friends just as fast?"

"No, but they have other capabilities."

She had already finished cleaning up. She sat on a couch and leaned back.

He sat on a chair facing her. She had a thin face with sharply defined cheek bones. He preferred women with a little more meat on them, but she wasn't unattractive. As a younger woman, she had probably been very beautiful.

"Are you some kind of assassin?" he said.

"I'm not an assassin. I don't work for money. I haven't been paid in over thirty years. But I do kill people occasionally."

He furrowed his brow. "How many people?"

She just stared at him. Even though she was silent, he got the impression it was a significant number.

"How big is your organization?" he said. "What do you call yourselves?"

"Let's not talk about me." She shook her head. "I want to know about you. I read the background report, but mere words and numbers can't capture a man's essence. Who is Roy Haley really?"

He felt a sudden wave of exhaustion. "Actually, I'm too worn out to continue this conversation. I intended to use this time to rest, and now I'm even more tired than before."

"That's right. You have a heart condition. Is there any kind of treatment?"

"Yes, but it's risky, and it might not help much. Surgery will have to wait until I'm out of office. I get by well enough as long as I don't push myself too hard."

She made a sour face. "Oh."

"What's wrong?" he said.

"I don't like this heart condition. You need to be healthy and strong."

"What are you going to do? Reach into my chest and fix my heart?"

She just stared at him with those disturbing eyes. She was more than just strange. She was unnatural.

"It was a joke," he said.

"Ha, ha." She smiled without humor. "Go to bed. Sleep. I'll just sit here and make some phone calls. There are always burning issues that need my attention. If anybody tries to bother you, I'll decapitate them."

He stared back.

"It was a joke," she said.

"Very funny." He got up.

He hesitated before leaving. He was entrusting his life to an unapologetic killer, yet he felt safe. It made no sense at all. He had the eerie sensation that he had just stepped through a doorway into a world with different rules. He went to the bedroom. He hoped the situation would make more sense after he slept.

* * *

Smythe was standing on the floor of the United Center. The Chicago Bulls and Blackhawks played their games here, but both teams were in their offseason now. The Democratic National Convention had turned the arena into a gigantic television studio.

A huge stage occupied the west end. The set was just a wooden podium and a few chairs on a field of pure blue. A darker blue velvet curtain hung in the background. Nothing would draw attention away from the person giving a speech.

The seats were normally a dull reddish-brown. Colored plastic sheets had been draped over the backs to give them a much livelier appearance. The bottom sections were blue, the level above was white, and the topmost sections were red.

Flags and bunting were hung everywhere. The overabundance of red, white, and blue embarrassed Smythe. He was as patriotic as any American, but this was overkill.

Rows of additional seating were on the arena floor facing the grand stage. The folding plastic chairs didn't look very comfortable, and he was glad he wasn't a delegate. He would hate to sit on those hard seats and listen to repetitive speeches for hours on end.

Smythe turned to Sheryl. Both
legionnaires
wore the cheap, blue suits of FBI agents. A thick packet of badges and credentials had allowed them to pass through the blanket of heavy security around the United Center.

"Have you been here before?" he asked.

She shook her head. "I'm not into sports. It's a very big building."

"Yes. We won't have time to see everything."

She looked around and frowned. "Let's start with the stage. It's the most obvious place to plant a bomb."

"Sure," he said.

They started walking.

Other people were moving through the arena. Many were clearly federal agents performing an inspection. The regular police were located in the parking lot outside.

A small army of technicians was working on the light and sound system. Hundreds of extra spotlights were clamped to the rafters far above. Big concert speakers were mounted on steel poles. Studio quality television cameras occupied strategic locations all around.

"It's going to be quite a show," Smythe said.

"I'm jealous," Sheryl said. "When I was a magician, I never had a gig like this. My biggest audience ever was maybe two thousand."

"That's not bad."

"Now I have no audience at all." She sighed.

"But the magic is real."

"That's true." She smiled. "I wish I had my own gift though. I feel like I'm not quite a member of the club."

"Give it time. Norbert is in the same boat, and he's been a Spear a lot longer than you."

They arrived at the stage. Metal staircases on either side led up to a painted plywood deck about eight feet off the ground.

Smythe lifted a cloth fringe to inspect the steel scaffolding underneath. He didn't see any bombs, but there were plenty of shadowy nooks.

"On second thought, let's not waste our time on the obvious threats," he said. "The feds will do that. I'm sure they'll inspect the whole building from top to bottom before the President arrives tomorrow night."

Sheryl nodded. "OK. What non-obvious threats should we look for instead?"

He looked around the huge arena. There were a lot of high, dark places where a sniper could hide, but the feds would be watching for that threat. In fact, they would have their own snipers up there.

He stomped on the hard floor. "I wonder what's underneath. Maybe there are tunnels."

"I'm sure Perry can find the plans on a computer somewhere."

"I bet Aaron already asked him to do that."

"Maybe one of the delegates is an assassin," she said. "If he could somehow get a gun into the building, he would have an easy shot at the President. How many delegates are there?"

"Around four thousand."

She winced. "That's a lot."

"An inconvenient number."

Smythe was already getting frustrated, and the mission had barely begun. There were too many possible threats. He didn't even know if the attack would take place in this building. Wesley's warning had been very vague.

Smythe walked around the stage and Sheryl followed. A movie star trailer was parked behind the curtain.

"I bet that's for makeup," she said. "Let's check it out."

The door was guarded, but Smythe and Sheryl had badges with every kind of clearance. They entered the trailer without any trouble.

Nobody was inside. Three chairs were mounted on swivels in front of three lighted mirrors. The air smelled of hair spray and acetone.

"I just thought of a non-obvious threat," she said.

He raised his eyebrows. "What?"

"Poison in the make-up."

"That's interesting. There are plenty of poisons that can pass through skin. You don't even have to get exotic. Ordinary nicotine will kill in high doses, and it can be mixed into a cosmetic easily. Let's mention it to Aaron."

"Should we call him?" she said.

"Why?"

"I think we need some guidance. We could waste hours here and accomplish nothing."

He shook his head. "He understands our situation. I'm sure he'd call us if he had any advice to give. Let's keep moving. Maybe we'll come up with more good ideas."

Chapter Four

Tawni was standing at the corner of West Odgen and Jackson in Chicago. She could see the United Center in the distance. The huge building was made of gray-brown concrete, although parts of the sides and roof were blue. It had a generally oval shape with squared off sections. Long vertical lines above the doors gave the architecture a slightly classical feel.

The intersection where she stood had become the epicenter of the anti-Haley protests. It was blocks away from the arena, so the police didn't feel compelled to break up the crowds. Abundant parking lots provided plenty of open space for gatherings.

The convention didn't officially begin until tomorrow evening, but protesters were already assembling and making their voices heard. Tawni studied the scattered crowd. The first thing she noticed was all of them were white even though mostly black people lived in this neighborhood. The inherent racism was so obvious it was almost funny.

"Let's pick somebody to talk to," Norbert said.

He wore loose blue jeans, a black T-shirt, and a leather jacket. It was an appropriate outfit for a pleasantly cool September morning. He was trying to blend in, but his freakishly athletic physique always drew some attention.

Tawni wore a brown sweater, a yellow skirt, and a floppy hat. The weight of several guns and knives under her clothing made her feel confident. A short sword strapped to her thigh was her favorite weapon. She had more toys in the beaded purse hanging on her shoulder. Being heavily armed was a good way to start a mission.

"How about that loser?" She pointed at an old man with a scrappy, gray beard.

He wore green Army fatigues which had stains and worn out knees. An empty gun holster was on his belt.

Norbert shrugged. "Fine. Let me do the talking."

"Why?"

"You tend to get violent when you're around morons."

"That's fair," Tawni said.

They walked over to the old man. His face was dirty. Tawni was glad they were outside so she didn't have to smell his body odor.

"Do you know when that asshole Haley is showing up?" Norbert said.

The old man turned and narrowed his eyes. "Who's asking?"

"Just another guy who hates him. You must be here for the same reason."

"Damn right. He's a lying mother fucker." The old man glared at Tawni as if she were partially responsible.

"What do you mean?" Norbert said.

"Everybody knows his father was a convicted rapist."

"I never heard that. I thought his dad was a school teacher."

"Haley had the records altered when he was the governor of North Carolina," the old man said loudly. "That bastard comes from a bad seed."

"Do you have proof?"

"It's common knowledge."

Tawni held her tongue with great difficulty.

"Oh." Norbert nodded. "Well, it was nice meeting you."

He walked off, and she hurried to keep up with him.

"You were right," she said. "He was a moron."

"But harmless. We're looking for the dangerous morons."

They came to a pudgy woman in a cute, pink dress. Her white tennis shoes were practical and boring. She was clutching a tiny, black purse to her chest and looking around anxiously.

"You seem a little nervous, ma'am," Norbert said.

She glanced to either side and whispered, "I'm watching out for Zionists."

"Why?"

"They're paying for Haley's re-election campaign. They secretly control him."

"Really?" he said in a dispirited tone.

Her eyes widened and she leaned forward. "The Jews have always used the blacks as dumb labor." She turned to Tawni. "But you already know about that, right?"

Tawni wanted to punch this woman in the face.

"Moving on." Norbert rolled his eyes.

The two of them continued to drift among the scattered protestors. Tawni expected the crowd would get much thicker and more rambunctious later in the day.