JSA: The Face Of Evil
By Bruce Wayne
DISCLAIMER: Most of the characters portrayed in this story are copyright by DC Comics, an AOL/Time/Warner company. They are used without permission for entertainment without profit by the author.
CHAPTER 3
The Boomer smoked a cigarette and listened as False-Face whistled from the bathroom through the open doorway. The whistling stopped, and False-Face in his own voice -- or at least Boomer assumed it was False-Face's own voice because he used it each time he slipped out of one identity before fully assuming another -- asked, "You have made all the preparations?"
"Yes, F.F. I have done all that you asked me to do."
"Faithful Boomer. When the new order soon comes, you, my friend, shall be at its pinnacle."
"I wish only to serve the true cause, F.F. -- and to serve you." The Boomer watched the smoke rising from his cigarette. He knew little about False- Face. He had worked with him for years, had taught him the craft of explosives, of detonators and timers, and chemical weapons. "You can always make something blow up," he liked to say. "The hard part is not to be near it when it does." Three years had passed before Boomer realized the face he had seen week in, week out and had accepted as False-Face's had been a contrived face, the hair and eye color false. Thus why the man had been called "False-Face."
All he knew that was real about False-Face was that he had been born in Germany and there was a peculiar scar in the shape of a lightning bolt on the left side of his neck below the ear. It was usually covered or obscured with makeup.
The Boomer believed that there was no more a perfect Nazi than False-Face and never could be.
Boomer dropped his cigarette. Standing before him was a sandy-haired Catholic priest. When it came, the voice of the smiling, blue-eyed priest was totally different from any The Boomer had ever heard False-Face use. But each new voice was always different. "I'm Father Mahoney. Could you please tell me where I'd find the White House, maybe catch a glimpse of the President as he walks by? Back in Dublin all the little ones in First Communion class are after me getting himself's autograph!" And the priest laughed.
"F.F.," exclaimed Boomer. "You are --"
It was False-Face's own voice again, not the Irish Catholic priest on holiday. "Have the bomb threats been continued as I instructed?"
"Yes, False-Face, they have."
"And the final security changes have been made, all the equipment put in place?"
The Boomer nodded, marvelling at False-Face's ability to slip in and out of character.
"And the surveillance of Under Secretary of Agriculture Horn goes according to plan?"
"Yes. Yes, it does, F.F." Boomer knew the meaning of the word "awe" -- it inspired him now.
"I shall personally join the surveillance team, Boomer," False-Face said. And the voice of the good-hearted priest from Dublin added, "After a wee nip of that foul-tasting gin there," and he started across the living room toward the bar.
***
Nazis liked mass meetings. Of this Selina Kyle -- Sister Mary Angelica -- was sure. She sat with the other nuns in the grammer-school lunchroom, listening as the blond-haired man she had clashed with earlier in the woods stood on the small stage and spoke. "Very soon, the meaning of what has transpired here shall be apparent to you all. And those of you with a sense of history will one day be proud to have been part of this, however seemingly insignifcant. You have my pledge, both as a duly authorized representative of the National Socialist Party and personally, that no harm shall befall any of the children."
The police chief, his holster empty, stood up. "Just what do you people want with us? This town couldn't have anything you value at all."
The Nazi on the podium answered, "Ah, but it will, Chief, it will -- and very soon."
A woman stood up, and though Selina couldn't see her face, the woman was obviously crying, from the sound of her voice. "Please let me see our little girl, please!" she pleaded. As the distraught mother ran toward the podium, rifles held by the Nazis sprinkled about the lunchroom bristled toward her. But the woman only fell to her knees at the foot of the small stage, her hands folded up toward the Nazi, as if in prayer. "Please!"
A man moved cautiously forward, bending down to the woman. He put his arms around her and slowly raised her to her feet. The woman -- Selina guessed it was his wife -- collapsed against him, sobbing as he took her back to sit down.
"There is one more matter," the Nazi continued. "There is a woman named Selina Kyle whom we suspect is hiding somewhere in the town. She poses some minor threat to our plans and therefore a major threat to the welfare of the children." The Nazi's left arm was in a sling and his left shoulder appeared swollen. Selina Kyle guessed it was bandages and packing. She'd hit him pretty good when he pursued her from the farmhouse. She looked at him over the top of her wire-rimmed glasses. "This woman must be turned over to us. Now," he ordered.
Chief McKeever stood up again. Selina Kyle admired the man's courage. "We ain't got no Selina what's her name. All the folks in this town is folks what belongs to this town, 'cept maybe them six fellas over at the motel -- and they're all men, anyway!"
"So, there is no strange woman in this town," redirected the Nazi. "I suggest to you, Chief, look very carefully for if you lie to us or we even think that you lie, one of the children will be shot. Immediately."
Selina Kyle squirmed in her folding chair. She told herself it was the high collar of the nun's habit she wore that made her feel suddenly warm. She felt Sister Mary Albert's left hand, and she looked down to her own lap. Sister Mary Albert clutched black rosary beads and had her fingers crossed.
Sister Angelica glanced up. The police chief was looking back from the front of the lunchroom, looking at faces. And then their eyes met. He knew she didn't belong here, she could read it in his face, but then his eyes moved away.
After what seemed an eternity, McKeever turned his back to the townspeople, his voice firm, clear. "I told you you before, if there's some Selina woman hiding here, well, she ain't at this meeting. If I find her, I'll lock her up in my jail. You ain't killing no woman with me standing by watching. And that's a clear fact."
The Nazi said nothing for a moment. His eyes were cold as he addressed the assembled townspeople in a crisp and demanding voice. "If there is the slightest disruption to our plans, the nerve gas inside the school will be used. The children and everyone else in this town will die a very unpleasant death.."
There were screams, gasps, a shouted threat from someone in the crowd. Chief McKeever turned and raised both hands to silence the crowd, shouting, "Easy, now. Easy," and then turned to face the Nazi standing high above him on the stage. "You use that nerve gas, you kill yourselves, too -- you know that."
"We are men of a purpose," the slightly German-accented voice returned. "And we will die for our beliefs, just as you would," and the Nazi walked offstage.
Selina Kyle heard Sister Mary Albert whisper hoarsely, "See, the rosary works every time, and you never have to reload it with anything but a prayer."
Selina Kyle just looked at the woman -- and at the rosary.
***
As Harry Fox stepped down into the light mist and started toward the base of the passenger-egress steps, his eyes swept the crowd. He liked it when it rained. There were less people out for him to watch over.
Harry Fox had been a U.S. Secret Service advance man for seven years and never liked the job. With Markowski down with the flu, he'd been pulled from the detail and reassigned as one of the peripheral guards for the President of the United States.
His job was stand at the base of the steps and scan the crowd of politicians, local officials, police and onlookers who gathered on the wet tarmac. His partner Rollins was to do the same. The bad thing about it raining was that you really couldn't wear sunglasses without attracting attention, and so when you searched the crowd, someone could watch your eyes. Fox locked onto a man with a beard who was edging forward in the crowd. He felt himself tense. He caught Rollins's eye, then started deeper into the crowd to cut the man out.
But two Chicago policemen moved quickly to flank the bearded man and shoulder him back.
Fox nodded to the cops and kept looking.
The young President stepped out into the rain, bareheaded under the umbrella held by a detail man behind him. He smiled, waved and started down the steps from the new Air Force One -- the first jetliner to carry that code name. A band was playing "Hail To The Chief." Fox didn't like the song. He wished they'd play "God Bless America," but the bands always played "Hail To The Chief." The First Lady hadn't made the trip. It was just a political hop into Chicago, then a motorcade through Illinois to Springfield to meet with the Illinois governor. Then a helicopter to St Louis, a political stop there and Air Force One back to Washington.
Fox's eyes drifted past the President and back to the crowd. The rain was heavier now, but the weather reports indicated it would stop well before the motorcade left in the morning.
As the presidential party moved away from the plane, he fell in step with Rollins, tailing the President. By the time Air Force One left St Louis, Markowski would be back on duty, and once they hit Washington, unless somebody else got the flu, he'd be back as an advance man.
He was a good advance man, even if he disliked the job intensely, checking everything just the way he should check everything. Sometimes he woke up at night trying to remember if he'd checked every rooftop access, every abandoned office or store front. He knew some people referred to him as "Paranoid" Fox.
Harry Fox hated being an advance man, but like everyone told him, he was the best there was at it.
***
"Fox usually does that -- you do it, Pete," Matt Arnold said.
Pete Loftus looked at Arnold and got out of the car. They had been driving through the small Illinois town of Reddington, without making their presence known, for more than an hour, up and down every street. They had gone through the public library, even visited the local gun shop. Loftus stepped out of the car and onto the sidewalk. He started toward the police department, took two steps and turned back, saying to Matt Arnold, "You remember that gun shop?"
"Yeah, what about it?" Arnold asked.
"Well, I remember the guy had a couple of M-1's in there, right?"
"Yeah. So?"
"He didn't have a single round of ammunition in the whole shop."
"Maybe he had it packed out back of the shop in the storeroom, or something," said Arnold.
"That doesn't make any sense, though. And there was something else, but I just can't put my finger on it."
"Look, do you want me to go in there and see the police chief?" asked Arnold.
"No, I'll see him," replied Loftus. "Fox usually sees the police chief, and I'm filling in for Fox, so I'll go see the police chief, already."
Pete Loftus turned around and started walking. Ahead of him was a small white building that looked as if it had once been a gas station. The fact that there was a gas pump on the side made the appearance all the more compelling, he thought. Two squad cars were parked out front, and he recognized one from having seen it earlier, when they had left the gun shop. That still bothered him. With the President making the unadvertised motorcade, it had been impossible to do all the advance work they normally would have done -- it would have generated publicity the President and his staff hadn't wanted.
He stepped up to the glass front door of the police station, turned the knob and walked inside.
An extremely heavy-set man sat at the dispatch radio. Loftus guessed he was the desk sergeant. "Sergeant?" he asked.
"Just a second, fella," the man growled, picking up the radio's microphone. "Charlie, that's a ten-four on that. Secretary of State's coming up with registration in a little bit. Hang in there -- out."
The sergeant looked up, saying, "Now what can I do for you, young fella?"
Loftus flashed his badge. "I'm Pete Loftus, Special Agent, United States Secret Service. I need to see your chief right away, and I need you not to say you've seen me."
"Hey, mum's the word, Agent --"
"Loftus," and Pete Loftus extended his right hand.
The sergeant's grip was firm, but his palm was sweaty. Loftus shook off the suspicion that had been gnawing at him about the gun shop. Taking old "Paranoid" Fox's job this trip was getting to him.
The sergeant walked around the desk and knocked on a glass door. "Chief, there's a fella here to see ya -- kind of special," and the sergeant looked back at Loftus and grinned.
Loftus came around the side of the counter and waited, still holding his badge.
The chief was a tall man, slightly younger than Loftus had expected. But he'd met enough police chiefs over the years to know they didn't fit a mold.
"I'm Rod McKeever," the man said. His voice sounded slightly strained. There were bandages under the police chief's shirt, covering the left shoulder, and the left arm was in a sling. "Got myself in a little scrap. Some crazy drunk -- you know how that is," he said.
Pete Loftus answered, "Yeah, I was a cop for twelve years before I joined the Secret Service," and he handed over his ID case. "The President of the United States will be passing through here tomorrow around lunchtime. He'll stop for ten minutes and then move on. We're here to make sure everything goes okay."
The man who identified himself as Rod McKeever only smiled. "I can tell you right now, sir, everything's going to go just like it was planned." And Loftus watched him as the police chief kept smiling.
***
"When do we stop for lunch? It must be getting about that time, surely. I wonder if they have any good clam chowder, here?"
"I doubt it, sir. We'll be visiting the town of Reddington at exactly five minutes to noon, Mr President, and our advance team indicates some of the school children will be presenting you with an award in the town square. We'll be on the road again by five minutes after twelve. By twelve-thirty you'll be pulling up at the Corrigan Farm, where the governor and his party will be waiting. There'll be an informal lunch, and by two you and the governor will motorcade again toward Springfield."
"Wonderful. So we eat at twelve-thirty. That was all I'd ask, Kenny," and the young President flashed his famous grin.
Kenny O'Brien breathed a loud sigh. "I'm sorry, Mr President. I guess I just get carried away with the details."
"Kenny, you do a good job," the President said with a heavy New England accent. "You're a good road man. Relax and light one of those cigars."
The President smiled and then he looked back to the open binder on his lap.
The President was a hell of a good guy, O'Brien thought. Automatically O'Brien checked his watch -- it read eight minutes before twelve.
The limousine reduced speed, and Kenny O'Brien leaned forward, tapping the driver on the shoulder. "Why are we slowing?" he asked.
"A police car is approaching -- from Reddington, I guess. Fox and Rollins will coordinate."
O'Brien nodded into the rearview mirror, then turned to look at the President. "The Reddington police are coming to meet us, apparently, Mr President."
"I heard, Kenny. When we stop in town, I'd like to meet the officer in charge."
"Yes, sir, I'll make a note of that."
The limousine had come to a full stop now, and O'Brien didn't like that. Then he laughed to himself. He'd been listening to "Paranoid" Fox too much ...
***
It was a nice little town, as little towns go, O'Brien thought as he smiled at the mayor and the injured police chief. There was something slightly odd about the way the chief spoke, but O'Brien shrugged it off and watched as the President shook hands all around.
A Catholic nun, rather pretty beneath the veil and glasses, was standing to one side with a half-dozen school children. She urged one of the children forward, and a little girl wearing a pink dress and a pink ribbon in her blond hair stepped toward the President. She carried a rolled piece of heavy paper that looked like a scroll, tied with three ribbons of red, white and blue.
There was a worried look on the nun's face, but O'Brien attributed it to concern that the little girl wouldn't screw things up.
"Mr President," and the little girl curtsied. "On behalf of all the children of Reddington, I --"
The nun prompted her, "Present, Elizabeth, present."
"On behalf of the children in Reddington, I present you with this scroll."
The President bent down to the little girl, accepting the scroll and smiling, impulsively pushing his hair back in place as the wind blew. There was no press coverage because of the way in which the motorcade had been arranged. No popping flashbulbs to mar the moment. O'Brien liked the man he worked for.
"Thank you, darling," the President told the little girl. He stood to his full height, his brown hair was caught in another gust of wind. "Should I read the scroll?"
The nun, her face suddenly pale, almost whispered, "You are supposed to read it, Mr President."
"Well, I always to do what I'm supposed to do," and the President smiled again. He undid the scroll's ribbons and began to read out loud: "All the remaining children of the town of Reddington are being held prisoner in the grammer school. With them are armed men and a --" The President put down the scroll as the Secret Service personnel shoved him toward the limousine.
The police chief stepped forward, his right arm crossing the little girl's shoulders beneath her neck. "Mr President," he shouted, "read the rest of the scroll or the little girl will die."
O'Brien felt his nerves tingle.
The President pushed aside one of his Secret Service bodyguards and stared at the police chief. "Your voice is different, Chief," he began.
"I am not the chief. Read the scroll, Mr President."
One of the Secret Service men started for the bogus policeman, but the President restrained him. He raised the scroll, reading aloud again: "With them are armed men and a bomb laced with VX nerve gas that if detonated will kill every living being in the town of Reddington, Illinois, if you do not order your guards to lay down their weapons and you yourself surrender to the National Socialist personnel surrounding you."
The President let the scroll fall from his hands. The wind caught it and blew it across the square. O'Brien was struck, for an instant by the thought that might become one of the most important documents in American history and it was vanishing like a discarded sheet of newspaper.
"If you use that VX nerve gas, sir," the President said evenly, clearly, deliberately, "you and all your men will die, as well. And so will I. And a dead President might not be of tremendous use to your plan, whatever it is."
"Mr President," came the deliberate answer. "Whether you live or die is immaterial to our plans. We prefer you to survive, as we ourselves would prefer to survive. The choice is yours, the choice of life for all of the innocent people of this town."
The guns of the Secret Service personnel were trained on the man.
"How am I to know you just aren't bluffing, mister?" said the President.
The man was quick to answer. "One hundred canisters of VX nerve gas were stolen by our leader, False-Face. One canister was nearly used in Gateway City. A second was detonated in space above Cape Caneveral. If you do not surrender within approximately two minutes, a bomb will be detonated that will spread the nerve gas throughout the town and countryside." And he released the little girl from his grasp.
The President looked at the man who issued the ultimatum. "Very well, sir," he said, and turned to the Secret Service personnel. "Lay down your guns, gentlemen."
To be continued ...
By Bruce Wayne
DISCLAIMER: Most of the characters portrayed in this story are copyright by DC Comics, an AOL/Time/Warner company. They are used without permission for entertainment without profit by the author.
CHAPTER 3
The Boomer smoked a cigarette and listened as False-Face whistled from the bathroom through the open doorway. The whistling stopped, and False-Face in his own voice -- or at least Boomer assumed it was False-Face's own voice because he used it each time he slipped out of one identity before fully assuming another -- asked, "You have made all the preparations?"
"Yes, F.F. I have done all that you asked me to do."
"Faithful Boomer. When the new order soon comes, you, my friend, shall be at its pinnacle."
"I wish only to serve the true cause, F.F. -- and to serve you." The Boomer watched the smoke rising from his cigarette. He knew little about False- Face. He had worked with him for years, had taught him the craft of explosives, of detonators and timers, and chemical weapons. "You can always make something blow up," he liked to say. "The hard part is not to be near it when it does." Three years had passed before Boomer realized the face he had seen week in, week out and had accepted as False-Face's had been a contrived face, the hair and eye color false. Thus why the man had been called "False-Face."
All he knew that was real about False-Face was that he had been born in Germany and there was a peculiar scar in the shape of a lightning bolt on the left side of his neck below the ear. It was usually covered or obscured with makeup.
The Boomer believed that there was no more a perfect Nazi than False-Face and never could be.
Boomer dropped his cigarette. Standing before him was a sandy-haired Catholic priest. When it came, the voice of the smiling, blue-eyed priest was totally different from any The Boomer had ever heard False-Face use. But each new voice was always different. "I'm Father Mahoney. Could you please tell me where I'd find the White House, maybe catch a glimpse of the President as he walks by? Back in Dublin all the little ones in First Communion class are after me getting himself's autograph!" And the priest laughed.
"F.F.," exclaimed Boomer. "You are --"
It was False-Face's own voice again, not the Irish Catholic priest on holiday. "Have the bomb threats been continued as I instructed?"
"Yes, False-Face, they have."
"And the final security changes have been made, all the equipment put in place?"
The Boomer nodded, marvelling at False-Face's ability to slip in and out of character.
"And the surveillance of Under Secretary of Agriculture Horn goes according to plan?"
"Yes. Yes, it does, F.F." Boomer knew the meaning of the word "awe" -- it inspired him now.
"I shall personally join the surveillance team, Boomer," False-Face said. And the voice of the good-hearted priest from Dublin added, "After a wee nip of that foul-tasting gin there," and he started across the living room toward the bar.
***
Nazis liked mass meetings. Of this Selina Kyle -- Sister Mary Angelica -- was sure. She sat with the other nuns in the grammer-school lunchroom, listening as the blond-haired man she had clashed with earlier in the woods stood on the small stage and spoke. "Very soon, the meaning of what has transpired here shall be apparent to you all. And those of you with a sense of history will one day be proud to have been part of this, however seemingly insignifcant. You have my pledge, both as a duly authorized representative of the National Socialist Party and personally, that no harm shall befall any of the children."
The police chief, his holster empty, stood up. "Just what do you people want with us? This town couldn't have anything you value at all."
The Nazi on the podium answered, "Ah, but it will, Chief, it will -- and very soon."
A woman stood up, and though Selina couldn't see her face, the woman was obviously crying, from the sound of her voice. "Please let me see our little girl, please!" she pleaded. As the distraught mother ran toward the podium, rifles held by the Nazis sprinkled about the lunchroom bristled toward her. But the woman only fell to her knees at the foot of the small stage, her hands folded up toward the Nazi, as if in prayer. "Please!"
A man moved cautiously forward, bending down to the woman. He put his arms around her and slowly raised her to her feet. The woman -- Selina guessed it was his wife -- collapsed against him, sobbing as he took her back to sit down.
"There is one more matter," the Nazi continued. "There is a woman named Selina Kyle whom we suspect is hiding somewhere in the town. She poses some minor threat to our plans and therefore a major threat to the welfare of the children." The Nazi's left arm was in a sling and his left shoulder appeared swollen. Selina Kyle guessed it was bandages and packing. She'd hit him pretty good when he pursued her from the farmhouse. She looked at him over the top of her wire-rimmed glasses. "This woman must be turned over to us. Now," he ordered.
Chief McKeever stood up again. Selina Kyle admired the man's courage. "We ain't got no Selina what's her name. All the folks in this town is folks what belongs to this town, 'cept maybe them six fellas over at the motel -- and they're all men, anyway!"
"So, there is no strange woman in this town," redirected the Nazi. "I suggest to you, Chief, look very carefully for if you lie to us or we even think that you lie, one of the children will be shot. Immediately."
Selina Kyle squirmed in her folding chair. She told herself it was the high collar of the nun's habit she wore that made her feel suddenly warm. She felt Sister Mary Albert's left hand, and she looked down to her own lap. Sister Mary Albert clutched black rosary beads and had her fingers crossed.
Sister Angelica glanced up. The police chief was looking back from the front of the lunchroom, looking at faces. And then their eyes met. He knew she didn't belong here, she could read it in his face, but then his eyes moved away.
After what seemed an eternity, McKeever turned his back to the townspeople, his voice firm, clear. "I told you you before, if there's some Selina woman hiding here, well, she ain't at this meeting. If I find her, I'll lock her up in my jail. You ain't killing no woman with me standing by watching. And that's a clear fact."
The Nazi said nothing for a moment. His eyes were cold as he addressed the assembled townspeople in a crisp and demanding voice. "If there is the slightest disruption to our plans, the nerve gas inside the school will be used. The children and everyone else in this town will die a very unpleasant death.."
There were screams, gasps, a shouted threat from someone in the crowd. Chief McKeever turned and raised both hands to silence the crowd, shouting, "Easy, now. Easy," and then turned to face the Nazi standing high above him on the stage. "You use that nerve gas, you kill yourselves, too -- you know that."
"We are men of a purpose," the slightly German-accented voice returned. "And we will die for our beliefs, just as you would," and the Nazi walked offstage.
Selina Kyle heard Sister Mary Albert whisper hoarsely, "See, the rosary works every time, and you never have to reload it with anything but a prayer."
Selina Kyle just looked at the woman -- and at the rosary.
***
As Harry Fox stepped down into the light mist and started toward the base of the passenger-egress steps, his eyes swept the crowd. He liked it when it rained. There were less people out for him to watch over.
Harry Fox had been a U.S. Secret Service advance man for seven years and never liked the job. With Markowski down with the flu, he'd been pulled from the detail and reassigned as one of the peripheral guards for the President of the United States.
His job was stand at the base of the steps and scan the crowd of politicians, local officials, police and onlookers who gathered on the wet tarmac. His partner Rollins was to do the same. The bad thing about it raining was that you really couldn't wear sunglasses without attracting attention, and so when you searched the crowd, someone could watch your eyes. Fox locked onto a man with a beard who was edging forward in the crowd. He felt himself tense. He caught Rollins's eye, then started deeper into the crowd to cut the man out.
But two Chicago policemen moved quickly to flank the bearded man and shoulder him back.
Fox nodded to the cops and kept looking.
The young President stepped out into the rain, bareheaded under the umbrella held by a detail man behind him. He smiled, waved and started down the steps from the new Air Force One -- the first jetliner to carry that code name. A band was playing "Hail To The Chief." Fox didn't like the song. He wished they'd play "God Bless America," but the bands always played "Hail To The Chief." The First Lady hadn't made the trip. It was just a political hop into Chicago, then a motorcade through Illinois to Springfield to meet with the Illinois governor. Then a helicopter to St Louis, a political stop there and Air Force One back to Washington.
Fox's eyes drifted past the President and back to the crowd. The rain was heavier now, but the weather reports indicated it would stop well before the motorcade left in the morning.
As the presidential party moved away from the plane, he fell in step with Rollins, tailing the President. By the time Air Force One left St Louis, Markowski would be back on duty, and once they hit Washington, unless somebody else got the flu, he'd be back as an advance man.
He was a good advance man, even if he disliked the job intensely, checking everything just the way he should check everything. Sometimes he woke up at night trying to remember if he'd checked every rooftop access, every abandoned office or store front. He knew some people referred to him as "Paranoid" Fox.
Harry Fox hated being an advance man, but like everyone told him, he was the best there was at it.
***
"Fox usually does that -- you do it, Pete," Matt Arnold said.
Pete Loftus looked at Arnold and got out of the car. They had been driving through the small Illinois town of Reddington, without making their presence known, for more than an hour, up and down every street. They had gone through the public library, even visited the local gun shop. Loftus stepped out of the car and onto the sidewalk. He started toward the police department, took two steps and turned back, saying to Matt Arnold, "You remember that gun shop?"
"Yeah, what about it?" Arnold asked.
"Well, I remember the guy had a couple of M-1's in there, right?"
"Yeah. So?"
"He didn't have a single round of ammunition in the whole shop."
"Maybe he had it packed out back of the shop in the storeroom, or something," said Arnold.
"That doesn't make any sense, though. And there was something else, but I just can't put my finger on it."
"Look, do you want me to go in there and see the police chief?" asked Arnold.
"No, I'll see him," replied Loftus. "Fox usually sees the police chief, and I'm filling in for Fox, so I'll go see the police chief, already."
Pete Loftus turned around and started walking. Ahead of him was a small white building that looked as if it had once been a gas station. The fact that there was a gas pump on the side made the appearance all the more compelling, he thought. Two squad cars were parked out front, and he recognized one from having seen it earlier, when they had left the gun shop. That still bothered him. With the President making the unadvertised motorcade, it had been impossible to do all the advance work they normally would have done -- it would have generated publicity the President and his staff hadn't wanted.
He stepped up to the glass front door of the police station, turned the knob and walked inside.
An extremely heavy-set man sat at the dispatch radio. Loftus guessed he was the desk sergeant. "Sergeant?" he asked.
"Just a second, fella," the man growled, picking up the radio's microphone. "Charlie, that's a ten-four on that. Secretary of State's coming up with registration in a little bit. Hang in there -- out."
The sergeant looked up, saying, "Now what can I do for you, young fella?"
Loftus flashed his badge. "I'm Pete Loftus, Special Agent, United States Secret Service. I need to see your chief right away, and I need you not to say you've seen me."
"Hey, mum's the word, Agent --"
"Loftus," and Pete Loftus extended his right hand.
The sergeant's grip was firm, but his palm was sweaty. Loftus shook off the suspicion that had been gnawing at him about the gun shop. Taking old "Paranoid" Fox's job this trip was getting to him.
The sergeant walked around the desk and knocked on a glass door. "Chief, there's a fella here to see ya -- kind of special," and the sergeant looked back at Loftus and grinned.
Loftus came around the side of the counter and waited, still holding his badge.
The chief was a tall man, slightly younger than Loftus had expected. But he'd met enough police chiefs over the years to know they didn't fit a mold.
"I'm Rod McKeever," the man said. His voice sounded slightly strained. There were bandages under the police chief's shirt, covering the left shoulder, and the left arm was in a sling. "Got myself in a little scrap. Some crazy drunk -- you know how that is," he said.
Pete Loftus answered, "Yeah, I was a cop for twelve years before I joined the Secret Service," and he handed over his ID case. "The President of the United States will be passing through here tomorrow around lunchtime. He'll stop for ten minutes and then move on. We're here to make sure everything goes okay."
The man who identified himself as Rod McKeever only smiled. "I can tell you right now, sir, everything's going to go just like it was planned." And Loftus watched him as the police chief kept smiling.
***
"When do we stop for lunch? It must be getting about that time, surely. I wonder if they have any good clam chowder, here?"
"I doubt it, sir. We'll be visiting the town of Reddington at exactly five minutes to noon, Mr President, and our advance team indicates some of the school children will be presenting you with an award in the town square. We'll be on the road again by five minutes after twelve. By twelve-thirty you'll be pulling up at the Corrigan Farm, where the governor and his party will be waiting. There'll be an informal lunch, and by two you and the governor will motorcade again toward Springfield."
"Wonderful. So we eat at twelve-thirty. That was all I'd ask, Kenny," and the young President flashed his famous grin.
Kenny O'Brien breathed a loud sigh. "I'm sorry, Mr President. I guess I just get carried away with the details."
"Kenny, you do a good job," the President said with a heavy New England accent. "You're a good road man. Relax and light one of those cigars."
The President smiled and then he looked back to the open binder on his lap.
The President was a hell of a good guy, O'Brien thought. Automatically O'Brien checked his watch -- it read eight minutes before twelve.
The limousine reduced speed, and Kenny O'Brien leaned forward, tapping the driver on the shoulder. "Why are we slowing?" he asked.
"A police car is approaching -- from Reddington, I guess. Fox and Rollins will coordinate."
O'Brien nodded into the rearview mirror, then turned to look at the President. "The Reddington police are coming to meet us, apparently, Mr President."
"I heard, Kenny. When we stop in town, I'd like to meet the officer in charge."
"Yes, sir, I'll make a note of that."
The limousine had come to a full stop now, and O'Brien didn't like that. Then he laughed to himself. He'd been listening to "Paranoid" Fox too much ...
***
It was a nice little town, as little towns go, O'Brien thought as he smiled at the mayor and the injured police chief. There was something slightly odd about the way the chief spoke, but O'Brien shrugged it off and watched as the President shook hands all around.
A Catholic nun, rather pretty beneath the veil and glasses, was standing to one side with a half-dozen school children. She urged one of the children forward, and a little girl wearing a pink dress and a pink ribbon in her blond hair stepped toward the President. She carried a rolled piece of heavy paper that looked like a scroll, tied with three ribbons of red, white and blue.
There was a worried look on the nun's face, but O'Brien attributed it to concern that the little girl wouldn't screw things up.
"Mr President," and the little girl curtsied. "On behalf of all the children of Reddington, I --"
The nun prompted her, "Present, Elizabeth, present."
"On behalf of the children in Reddington, I present you with this scroll."
The President bent down to the little girl, accepting the scroll and smiling, impulsively pushing his hair back in place as the wind blew. There was no press coverage because of the way in which the motorcade had been arranged. No popping flashbulbs to mar the moment. O'Brien liked the man he worked for.
"Thank you, darling," the President told the little girl. He stood to his full height, his brown hair was caught in another gust of wind. "Should I read the scroll?"
The nun, her face suddenly pale, almost whispered, "You are supposed to read it, Mr President."
"Well, I always to do what I'm supposed to do," and the President smiled again. He undid the scroll's ribbons and began to read out loud: "All the remaining children of the town of Reddington are being held prisoner in the grammer school. With them are armed men and a --" The President put down the scroll as the Secret Service personnel shoved him toward the limousine.
The police chief stepped forward, his right arm crossing the little girl's shoulders beneath her neck. "Mr President," he shouted, "read the rest of the scroll or the little girl will die."
O'Brien felt his nerves tingle.
The President pushed aside one of his Secret Service bodyguards and stared at the police chief. "Your voice is different, Chief," he began.
"I am not the chief. Read the scroll, Mr President."
One of the Secret Service men started for the bogus policeman, but the President restrained him. He raised the scroll, reading aloud again: "With them are armed men and a bomb laced with VX nerve gas that if detonated will kill every living being in the town of Reddington, Illinois, if you do not order your guards to lay down their weapons and you yourself surrender to the National Socialist personnel surrounding you."
The President let the scroll fall from his hands. The wind caught it and blew it across the square. O'Brien was struck, for an instant by the thought that might become one of the most important documents in American history and it was vanishing like a discarded sheet of newspaper.
"If you use that VX nerve gas, sir," the President said evenly, clearly, deliberately, "you and all your men will die, as well. And so will I. And a dead President might not be of tremendous use to your plan, whatever it is."
"Mr President," came the deliberate answer. "Whether you live or die is immaterial to our plans. We prefer you to survive, as we ourselves would prefer to survive. The choice is yours, the choice of life for all of the innocent people of this town."
The guns of the Secret Service personnel were trained on the man.
"How am I to know you just aren't bluffing, mister?" said the President.
The man was quick to answer. "One hundred canisters of VX nerve gas were stolen by our leader, False-Face. One canister was nearly used in Gateway City. A second was detonated in space above Cape Caneveral. If you do not surrender within approximately two minutes, a bomb will be detonated that will spread the nerve gas throughout the town and countryside." And he released the little girl from his grasp.
The President looked at the man who issued the ultimatum. "Very well, sir," he said, and turned to the Secret Service personnel. "Lay down your guns, gentlemen."
To be continued ...
