The Innocent (51 page)

Although the VIPs and staffers had not been told of any threat, it seemed, from their anxious features, that some of them realized that the move to this room was out of the ordinary.

Robie thoughts went back to the overheard conversation at the plane hangar.

Not a westerner.

Decades in the making.

That obviously couldn’t be George Van Beuren. He should have realized there had to be a second person.

Robie saw the crown prince hovering nervously in one corner. There was a wall of security around him and his staff. Robie quickly sized up each of the staff members. Some, like the prince, were wearing traditional robes. Others were in suits. The crown prince looked like his black-sheep cousin, Talal. Both fat and both too rich. A lot of damage one could do with all that money, thought Robie. The world would be safer if people didn’t have so much damn wealth.

His gaze next swept to the other side of the room.

He could see the president in the middle of the wall of agents. He had possessed dark hair when winning the White House. Now, after three years in office, a good deal of it had turned white. Maybe that was the real reason why the place was called the White House, thought Robie. It quickly aged all the occupants.

There were six agents forming the hard wall around the president. But even with that there were clean shooting lines right to the man if one was close enough. Each agent was looking outward, at possible threats. Robie looked for any agent who was not doing this, who was looking at the president or at other agents. Even if
they believed the threat to be over, their vigilance should never relax, for in truth, the danger was never over.

All of the agents’ gazes were directed outward. Maybe there was only one shooter. Robie could use a bit of luck right now, and having only one person to deal with would be lucky indeed.

He rolled the cart farther into the room. He checked the crown prince’s corner one more time. If the threat came from there it would be a difficult shot to hit the president.

He turned his attention to the last group.

The staffers and other members of the group sequestered here stood in the middle of the room. They were all formally dressed. Robie saw lots of black. Many of the women wore shawls, jackets, and wraps to cover bare shoulders. Some carried tiny purses, all too small for Van Beuren’s sidearm.

The men huddled together. Tuxes were the rule. Suits with pockets and maybe a stolen nine-millimeter from an unconscious guard in one of them.

Most were Caucasian. The majority of them appeared to be westerners, but of that Robie couldn’t be certain. But there were about a dozen who looked to be from distant places.

Robie fixed his sights even more on this middle group. Equidistant between the two national leaders, this positioning made the most sense if the plan was to kill both men. It would take miraculous shooting, but it was not impossible for someone who knew what he was doing. The distances involved were short.

I could do it
, thought Robie.

The first shot would create a panic. If it hit its target the focus would momentarily be on the victim of that shooting. As the person fell to the floor, those around him would scream, run, duck.

But it was difficult to fire a gun in close quarters and go unnoticed. Someone would identify the shooter. Agents would rush forward. People would grab at the person. But the shooter might get off another shot. It was certainly feasible.

And with that thought Robie came to understand the order of targets.

President first.

Prince second.

You didn’t get this far and kill the second banana first. The president would be the priority target. If the shooter could get off another round, it would be aimed at the prince.

As people came forward to get their coffees, Robie made another sweeping gaze of the room to check for possible position advantages for the shooter.

A group of guests and staffers hung back, clustered around the table. Some had turned chairs around and were leaning on the backs of them.

Mostly women, Robie noted.

Three-inch-heel syndrome. Their feet were probably killing them after the long evening event.

Robie took in the people here one by one until he arrived at the woman.

And then he stopped looking.

Annie Lambert was looking back at him.

She was dressed in black. She had a jacket over her strapless dress.

She held no purse.

Her hands were folded across her chest and rested inside her jacket.

Her hair was done up with a few strands trickling around her long neck.

She looked beautiful.

So this was the reason for the black dress and high heels Robie had seen through his scope. She had told Robie she would be working this event, but he had somehow failed to make the connection.

He promised himself that whatever happened he would save her from harm. She would not die tonight.

Her lips were set in a firm line. She obviously recognized Robie. But she did not smile. She was probably scared, he thought. For a terrible second he wondered if she would raise the alarm about him. To her Robie was an investment banker. Why would he be here dressed as a waiter? Maybe she would think he was here to kill the president. He wondered how to signal to her, but he could
think of no way to do so. He just had to hope she would not panic from seeing him.

Yet there was a calmness about her that Robie found enviable under the circumstances. His respect for her grew even more. Her eyes were wide and seemed to take in every bit of him in one glance.

Then he saw that her pupils were also dilated. And then she smiled at him in a way she never had before. And in that moment Robie saw a side of Annie Lambert he had never suspected even existed.

There was a split second where Robie’s mind shut down, as though he’d been struck by lightning. Then his brain immediately fired back up.

He shouted, “Shooter!” He drew his gun.

But with astonishing speed Annie Lambert pulled the gun from where it had been hidden in a compartment in her jacket, aimed, and fired, seemingly all in one smooth motion.

The president was only a few feet away. Her shot hit him in the arm instead of the chest. An agent had grabbed him when Robie had shouted. If the president hadn’t moved his heart would have been pierced by the round instead of his limb.

She started to point her gun at the prince. She never made it.

Robie’s shot hit Lambert directly in the head and blew out the back, the slug embedding in the wall behind her along with some of the woman’s brain and skull. The yellow paint turned red.

She fell backward, hit the table, and slid to the floor.

The Secret Service removed the president from the room so fast his blood barely had time to touch the floor.

Robie heard screams, sensed people rushing in and out. But he simply stood there, his gun pointed down.

All he could do was stare silently at Annie Lambert’s body.

R
OBIE WAS IN
a room at the White House. He didn’t know which room and he didn’t care. He had been led to it by others and told to wait there.

He sat in a chair and stared at the floor. The light overhead was dim. He heard noises from outside somewhere. People were talking in the halls. Occasionally the sound of a siren reached him.

None of it made an impression on him.

He only saw Annie Lambert’s face. Her eyes, really. The pupils big and pulpy, seemingly too large to be contained in such limited space.

He saw the round from his Glock hit her head, explode her brain, and end her life.

He saw this a hundred times. He could not make his mind turn the image off. It kept playing like a video reel. Part of him wanted to place his gun against his temple and make it stop for good.

But they had taken his gun from him and so this was not an option.

Right now that was probably a good thing, he thought. Right now Robie was not sure he wanted to live. He could no longer make sense of anything.

The door opened and Robie looked up.

“Agent Robie?”

He saw the director of the Secret Service. Behind him was Blue Man.

“Yeah?” said Robie.

“The president would like to personally thank you.”

“How is he?”

“Fine. Hospital released him. Thank God the bullet went clean through his arm. More blood than damage. He’ll be fine in no time.”

“That’s good,” said Robie. “But there’s no need to thank me. Just doing my job. You can tell him that for me.” He looked down at the floor once more.

“Robie,” said Blue Man, stepping forward. “It’s the president. He’s in the Oval Office. He’s expecting you.”

Robie glanced up at the man. Always neat as a pin. Twelve in the afternoon or twelve at night, didn’t matter.

Blue Man had a confused look on his face. While he had known that Annie Lambert lived in Robie’s apartment building, Robie also knew that Blue Man was not aware of their relationship. And he did not feel like enlightening him.

Robie said, “Okay. Let’s go.”

The trip to the Oval Office took a few minutes and involved their walking outside and past the Rose Garden. Before Teddy Roosevelt had had the West Wing created a series of glass conservatories had occupied the spot. As they trudged along, Robie recalled that Roosevelt had been shot while campaigning for president. The only thing that had saved his life was the thickness of the speech that had been folded up in his pocket. The bullet had hit this mass of paper and it had robbed enough of the round’s kinetic energy that Roosevelt had been able to give his speech, albeit while bleeding heavily from the wound in his chest. He had only consented to be taken to the hospital after his speech was done.

They didn’t make presidents like that anymore, thought Robie.

And so Roosevelt had lived. And so had the current president.

He had lived because of a bit of skill on Robie’s part.

And a lot of luck.

Just like the rolled-up speech.

The president sat behind his desk, his left arm sat stiffly in a sling. He rose when he saw Robie. He had changed clothes. Gone was the tux, replaced by a white dress shirt and black slacks. He looked shaken still, but there was firm resolve in his grip as he shook hands with Robie.

“You saved my life tonight, Agent Robie. I wanted to thank you personally for that.”

“I’m just glad you’re okay, Mr. President.”

“I can’t believe that one of my staff was involved. Ms. Lambert, I believe. They tell me there was nothing in her background that would have hinted at this.”

“I’m sure it was a surprise to everyone,” replied Robie dumbly.

Especially me.

“How did you recognize so quickly that it was her?”

“She had taken a drug, to calm her nerves. Suicide bombers often do this before they detonate. Her pupils were dilated from the drug’s action in her body.”

“She was drugged, but could still shoot straight?”

“There are chemicals that relax the nerves, sir, without dulling the other senses. And it actually makes you a better shot. Nerves kill the aim faster than anything. And I would assume that even the most gifted assassin would have been nervous tonight.”

“Because they would know there was no way out. That they would die,” said the president.

“Yes, sir. And she was close to you, only a few feet away. Her accuracy, of course, was important, but not as critical as her speed.”

In fact, she was faster than me
, thought Robie. Her gun had appeared in a blaze of motion. Aimed, fired, and started to move to the secondary target before he could even get off one shot. It was only his shout that had made the agent nearest the president act swiftly enough to move him so that a mortal wound became something far less.

As though he had been reading Robie’s thoughts, the president said, “They tell me that if I hadn’t been moved I would be dead. And I wouldn’t have been moved except for your warning.”

“I wish I could have stopped her before she fired.”

The president smiled and held up his wounded arm. “I’ll take this any day over being dead, Agent Robie.”

“Yes, sir.”

Robie wanted to leave now. He wanted to be alone. He wanted to get into his car and just drive until he ran out of fuel.

“We will honor you suitably another time. But again, I wanted to make sure that I conveyed my personal thanks as soon as possible.”

“And again, not necessary, sir. But I appreciate it.”

“The First Lady would like to thank you as well.”

As if on cue the president’s wife walked in looking pale, the night’s terror still clearly in her eyes. Unlike her husband, she had not bothered to change. She swept over to Robie and took his hand in hers.

“Thank you, Agent Robie. Neither of us will ever be able to repay the debt we owe you.”

“You don’t owe me anything, ma’am. I wish you both the best.”

A minute later Robie was walking fast down the hall. It was as though he couldn’t breathe in here, like he was submerged in water.