A Hideous Beauty (36 page)

And while the president's motorcade was stranded on a newly made island, there appeared to be no real damage. From what I could see no one had been hurt and, most important, the sky was clear of threatening black specks.

“Well, what do you think?” Semyaza said.

My heart was doing a drum roll and my knees felt like jelly. But relief is a tonic and I was feeling better by the second. “You failed.” It felt good to say it. “A lot of fireworks, a lot of ooo's and ahhh's, but in the end everyone is going home safe. The president is still alive.”

A roar in the sky startled me and for one frightening moment I thought Noonan had brought company. But it was a news helicopter charging onto the scene.

The sleek chopper was immediately intercepted by a Coast Guard helicopter with several surface craft speeding to its aid, guns at the ready. A bullhorn voice warned the chopper away. The voice was loud, no-nonsense, but youthful and unsteady.

The news chopper wisely backed off, but didn't go away. There is a time to test the limits of free speech and the press, but this was not it, not when a trembling finger is on the trigger of a big gun aimed at you.

A pounding of boots and heavy, labored breathing approached us from behind, announcing the arrival of a three-man news crew. They'd parked their van on the pier and ran to the end of the flight deck. Paying no attention to us, they proceeded to set up camera and sound equipment with a speed that comes from experience.

One of them, a man with a steel chin and large forearms, hefted a camera to his shoulders and aimed it at the bridge. A second man plugged patch cords into equipment and donned a pair of headphones, while the third man uncoiled the cord of a handheld microphone. Of the three, he was the only one wearing a tie. I assumed he was the reporter, though I didn't remember ever seeing him on the evening news.

“Hey, guys!” the cameraman shouted. “Jana's on the bridge!”

Just then a monitor flickered and came to life. The camera zoomed in on a woman running from the bus to the motorcade.

“How did she get on the bridge?” the tie shouted with a voice that made no attempt at hiding his professional envy.

“She's good,” the cameraman said, keeping his eye glued to the eyepiece. “I've worked with her before.”

“This is great!” the wiry-haired technician shouted. From his expression and quick movements it was evident he was the excitable type. “We have a reporter on the bridge! No other
station has a reporter on the bridge, not even the networks! We're gonna scoop the networks, boys! We're gonna scoop the networks!”

“How?” the tie countered. “With hand signals? We have picture, but no sound.”

“Cell phone!” the technician cried. “We'll call her cell. I can patch it in.”

“Does anybody have her phone number?” the cameraman asked.

“They'll have it at the station. Adrian, call the station and get her number.”

The tie tapped numbers on his phone without enthusiasm. “What if she doesn't have her cell phone with her?”

“She does,” the cameraman said.

“How do you know?”

“Look at the monitor.”

A close-up image of Jana showed her answering her cell phone.

“What are you doing on the bridge?” I asked her.

The three newsmen did a double take. They stared at me like I was Merlin performing a bit of magic. I don't know why I didn't think of calling her sooner.

“Grant? Where are you?” Jana said. She continued toward the motorcade. I followed her progress on the monitor. “Hold on just a second, Grant.”

Jana lowered her phone. I watched as Christina and Jana met and embraced. I could hear them asking each other if they were hurt. They assured each other they were fine.

“Grant, Christina's here with me.”

“I know. I can see you.”

That surprised her. “Grant says he can see us,” she told Christina. Now both women were looking for me.

“I'm on the deck of the
Midway.”

Jana pointed for Christina's benefit.

The wiry-haired tech appeared in front of me. “Hey, buddy, we need to use your phone,” he said. Not waiting for an answer, he tried to take the phone from me. I blocked his arm.

“Jana, one of your news crews is here,” I told her.

“It's me, Jana . . . Craig!” the tech shouted loud enough for her to hear. “We have a crew here. We can have you live in—”

I turned my back to him and walked away.

“First,” I said to Jana, “are you and Christina really all right?”

She assured me they were. Shaken, but not hurt.

“What do you want me to do about this news crew?” I asked her.

Adrian, the tie, approached us with his cell phone pressed to his ear. To the tech, he said, “I have Burns on the line. He says if Jana is really on the bridge and doesn't go live, she's fired.”

I began to relay the order. “They say if you don't go live—”

“I heard,” Jana said.

“It's your call,” I told her. “Right now your first responsibility is to get off the bridge to safety. You can always tell the world later.”

“No!” the tech shouted, grabbing for the phone.

To my surprise Semyaza stepped between me and the tech. He was a formidable presence. It wasn't just posturing; he radiated power and authority. I could feel it. So could the tech. He backed off.

“It's your call,” I repeated to Jana. “Give the word and I'll toss my cell into the bay.”

“No!” the tech shouted. He had a mind to reach for the phone again, but thought better of it.

“Give him your phone, Grant,” Jana said. “That's why I'm here.”

“You're sure?”

On the monitor I could see her look to the sky. I did the same. It was clear.

“Let's do it,” she said.

I handed my cell phone to Craig, the tech, who let out a whoop and ran with it back to his equipment. “Two minutes,” he cried, “and I can have her patched in. Jana, do you hear me? We'll go live in two minutes.”

Semyaza took up position beside me. “She's too good for you,” he said. “I've always thought so. That's why I stole her away from you. I knew I couldn't have her, but I didn't want you to have her.”

The cameraman zoomed in on Jana. Her face filled the monitor. As she prepared to broadcast a live report from the bridge, she looked confident, professional, and alluring.

A thumping sound came from across the bay as a pair of Navy helicopters lifted off the deck of the USS
Ronald Reagan.
They set course toward what was still standing of the bay bridge.

From atop the San Diego Bay bridge Jana faced the USS
Midway
and, talking into her cell phone, reported the news:

“This is Jana Torres reporting live from the San Diego Bay bridge, where moments ago an FA-18 Hornet fired four missiles at the president's motorcade in an apparent assassination attempt. The president is unharmed. However, the missiles severed both ends of the bridge, effectively cutting the motorcade off from land. As you can see behind me, a rescue effort is under way.”

The view on the monitor focused on one of the transport helicopters as it landed on the southern lanes. The second helicopter hovered a short distance away beside the bridge, awaiting its turn.

“About a dozen vehicles are stranded,” Jana reported, “including a school bus of children who were scheduled to sing for the president at a farewell rally. A last-minute addition to the motorcade, all the children on the bus are safe, thanks to the heroic effort of one Secret Service agent who fell to his death during the attack on the east end of the bridge.”

It was difficult to hear her. The noise of the helicopter was almost drowning her out.

“Just a few moments ago,” she shouted over it, “I spoke with an aide to the president and was informed that while the Secret Service has made every attempt to get the president to safety, the president refuses to leave the bridge until all the children are safe.”

Again the camera transitioned from Jana to a line of schoolchildren being led by an attractive woman in a matching red skirt and jacket to the rescue helicopters. Christina carried a girl in one arm, while holding the hand of another girl.

The Secret Service and staff had formed a line, lifting the children over a cement divider and into the waiting helicopter. The last man in the line, the one handing the children to the helicopter crew, was President Douglas.

When the helicopter reached capacity, the president stepped back and gave the pilot a thumbs-up. As soon as the first helicopter cleared the bridge, the second helicopter landed. The rescue effort proceeded in orderly fashion.

Semyaza sighed as he watched. “Frightening the natives was so much easier in the Dark Ages . . . a little lightning, a little thunder . . .”

“I'm glad you're amusing yourself,” I said, alternately checking the monitor and the bridge as the rescue effort unfolded.
Everything was proceeding smoothly. Too smoothly in my opinion.

“And why shouldn't I be amused?” Semyaza said. “This is like opening night at the theater for me. The curtain has gone up after years of preparation. The staging. Casting of characters. Watching it all come together gives me goose bumps. Well, if I had flesh, it would give me goose bumps.”

I ground my teeth and said nothing. He was toying with me. Cat and mouse. I was mouse enough to know that when he tired of playing with me he was going to hurt me.

My gaze fastened on the bridge.

Me, or someone I care about.

Semyaza said, “More important, Grant, are you enjoying our little production? Our boy on the bridge is looking pretty good, isn't he?”

The image of R. Lloyd Douglas filled the television monitor. His coat was off. His shirtsleeves were rolled up. His hair was in his eyes and he was sweating. He looked every inch a media hero, the most powerful man on earth endangering his own life to save the lives of children.

Only they were children he'd put in harm's way for the occasion. And his hero strength had been injected by his physician.

“He's still alive,” I said.

“For the moment,” Semyaza conceded. “But let's talk about you.”

“I'm not going to do what you want me to do,” I said.

“And what is it you think we want you to do?”

“You said it in your office. You want me to write a final chapter . . . a final lie . . . for Douglas's biography.”

“Did I say that?” Semyaza asked.

“That's exactly what you said.”

“I lied.”

I glared at him.

He was unapologetic. “I said what needed to be said at the time.”

“Regardless, when this is all over, I'm going to write a book exposing everything. All the lies and cover-ups. Vietnam. Douglas's addiction. And I'm going to clear my name.”

“Clear your name? What are you talking about?”

“I know about Sylvia Jakes,” I said.

“Who?”

He scrunched up his face as though he didn't know. Not surprising. I imagine you can get quite good at it when you're a follower of the Father of Lies, a being who has lied for millennia.

“Sylvia Jakes. The White House intern who doctored the manuscript to make it appear as though I had confessed to assassinating the president.”

Semyaza burst out laughing. “That's good . . . that's rich! I'd forgotten all about that!”

“You have a habit of forgetting your failures. I'll help you remember this one.”

Semyaza was still laughing. “Mastema has a knack for this sort of thing. She's the practical joker of our team. You know her as Margaret, I believe she was—”

“Secretary to the chief of staff.”

“Her task was to keep an eye on you while you were at the White House.”

“You expect me to believe that you had nothing to do with implicating me in the assassination attempt?”

Semyaza guffawed. “Heavens, no! Who in his right mind would believe you were capable of pulling off an event this grand? It was a lark.”