Margaret Truman's Experiment in Murder (35 page)

If there was a cape, it was soon lost in the tangle of their clothing as they quickly disrobed and fell into bed.

*   *   *

There must have been something in the air that evening in Washington, because Mac and Annabel Smith were feeling romantic, too. After an Italian dinner at Tosca, they returned to their apartment, changed into pajamas and robes, and Mac poured them snifters of cognac, which they enjoyed on the terrace. It was a crystal-clear night in the nation's capital, and surprisingly calm judging from what was on the news that day, no controversial pending legislation in Congress, no escalation of military operations or loss of a serviceman or -woman's life in some far-flung place, no drug-induced drive-by shooting to provide a gory front-page photo.

It had been a good day for the Smiths. Annabel had sold a valuable piece of pre-Columbian earthenware, and Mac had successfully settled a lawsuit brought against a colleague at the university. They toasted their respective successes.

“Looking forward to tomorrow?” Annabel asked.

“George Mortinson's big event? I am. That band they've booked is terrific.”

“The music? What about hearing a stirring political speech?”

Mac laughed. “I love George,” he said, “but I've heard enough stirring political speeches and seen enough nasty TV commercials. It'll be nice when the campaign is over.”

“It will be soon,” she said. “Let's make it an early night.”

Forty-five minutes after going to bed, they fell into a peaceful sleep, smiles on their faces.

*   *   *

Mackensie Smith wasn't the only person who was eager for the campaign to end. George and Tricia Mortinson returned to their rented home after having attended a fund-raiser at the Hay-Adams hotel.

“I hate having to raise money,” he commented as they undressed for bed.

“That won't stop once you're the president,” she said from where she brushed her hair in front of a mirror on a makeup table.

“I know,” he said. “The fat cats and corporations own the country, and they own Swayze lock, stock, and barrel.”

“It'll be over soon,” she said.

“And you'll be the first lady,” he said, coming up behind and kneading her shoulders, “unless Swayze decides to invade Canada or Mexico and becomes what he'd really like to be, a war president.”

She laughed. “Ready for the rally tomorrow?” she asked.

“I'm looking forward to it. You?”

“I'll be glad when it's over,” she said, not adding that large public rallies made her especially nervous for his safety. She laid down her hairbrush, stood, and embraced him. “You know, George, that I would love you as much whether you became president of the United States or not.”

“I know,” he said, kissing her softly. “I never would have considered running if I didn't have you at my side. You'll be a great first lady.”

“I'd rather be a great wife,” she said.

All thoughts of being first lady vanished as they headed for bed, where they celebrated their love for each other.

*   *   *

And so all was well that night in Washington, D.C., and the weather report for the next day was clear skies, mild temperatures, and a gentle breeze.

A perfect day for a political rally.

 

CHAPTER

42

Meg Whitson arrived at the Ronald Reagan Building at five the following morning, where preparations were already under way for the rally. Workmen unloaded trucks of construction material that would be used to build the platform on which Mortinson and those closest to him would sit and from which he would give his speech. There were also the booths to house the soft drink and snack concessions, manned by Mortinson volunteers. A second, lower platform was constructed for the six-piece band; a state-of-the-art public address system was provided by a sound company that had worked with the campaign since its inception. Another group of workers established a rope line using stanchions and coils of thick yellow rope, while a group of volunteers prepared to hang banners containing large photos of Mortinson and his running mate, New Mexico governor Raymond Thomas, and hundreds of red, white, and blue balloons.

Meg greeted the lead Secret Service agent, whose fellow agents, supplemented by representatives from the FBI and CIA, scoured the premises for potential dangers and formulated plans for where security would be stationed throughout the event. She looked up at rooftops. If Mortinson were a sitting president, snipers would be positioned on them during the rally. A separate entrance to the sprawling Woodrow Wilson Plaza had been established the night before, through which all security personnel would pass, their identification established by ID badges, as well as a thumb scanner that verified who they were based upon fingerprints provided earlier.

“Looks like we lucked out with the weather,” Meg said to the lead agent.

“Looks like it,” the agent replied. He turned from her as he heard a squawk on his small earbud and responded into a tiny microphone on the lapel of his suit jacket. Meg watched him with admiration. The Secret Service was an exemplary agency, their senses highly attuned to the potential of any trouble, eyes never straying from those who would shake their candidate's hand, their keen hearing alert to any sound that might indicate a looming danger.

After two hours, and pleased with the progress she saw, Meg left the area and went to a coffee shop to feed her growling stomach with eggs, bacon, toast, and two cups of coffee. She was exhausted. Knowing that she had to be up at four that morning, she'd tossed and turned in bed and was out of it long before the alarm went off. It always seemed to work that way.

At eight fifteen, she was at headquarters, where she went over a final to-do list. Meg Whitson lived for lists—she often joked that she had lists of lists—and was sure she'd be totally lost without them. At eleven, she returned to the Reagan Building and saw that everything was progressing as planned. The crowd would be admitted to the plaza beginning at one, the speeches kicking off at two. With any luck it would be over by three thirty, but that depended on how quickly Mortinson could personally greet each guest and how fast the two professional photographers could finish snapping candid shots of the candidate with his supporters.

She took the opportunity to admire some of the statuary in the plaza.
Bearing Witness,
a striking forty-foot-tall bronze work by the renowned sculptor Martin Puryear, jutted into the air at the western edge of the plaza, and a cast-aluminum sculpture, the
Federal Triangle Flowers
by Washington artist Stephen Robin—a single-stem rose and a lily, each ten feet high, twenty-four feet long, and seven feet wide, set atop limestone pedestals—dominated the large open space. She was especially fond of this piece and had stopped to admire it from different angles each time she'd been in the plaza.

She checked her watch. A half hour before the crowd would begin passing through the security checkpoints.

*   *   *

George and Tricia Mortinson had enjoyed a leisurely breakfast together. The only campaign event planned for that day was the rally at the Reagan Building, and the senator basked in not having to be somewhere at the crack of dawn. They read that morning's paper and discussed items in it, including a piece about the rally that would begin in a few hours.

“Your speech ready?” Tricia asked.

“A rehash of previous ones, with an added emphasis on initiating policies to benefit the middle class instead of the millionaires.”

“Some of those millionaires have funded part of your campaign.”

“And I shall be eternally grateful as long as they don't think they've bought me.”

He went to a window overlooking the street and saw that his Secret Service contingent was in place and awaiting his departure from the house.

“They work hard,” he commented.

“They certainly do. Think I'll hit the shower,” she said, placing her hand on his neck as she passed.

A few hours later, their serene morning would end when they climbed into the back of the limo and headed for the Reagan Building.

*   *   *

The pace at the Virginia safe house was decidedly less leisurely than at the Mortinson home.

Puhlman and Gibbons had quietly packed their bags outside of Itani's presence. The young Arab American had slept until he was summoned to the phone by Puhlman to take a call from Sheldon Borger.

“Good morning, Iskander,” Borger said. “Did you have a good night's sleep?”

“Yes. I have asked Mr. Gibbons when I would fight, but he says nothing. He tells me to be patient. I need to work out, to be ready.”

“Of course you do, Iskander,” Borger said in his silky-smooth, nicely modulated voice. “It will happen soon. Revenge is sweet, Iskander.”

Puhlman, who stood close by, witnessed the change in Itani's face. Until that moment he'd been angry; his expression testified to that. Now, sheer serenity replaced the anger, his eyes focused across the room, his body's previous tension eased. Borger's use of the trance-inducing code
Revenge is sweet
had snapped Itani out of the present. He was now firmly under the doctor's control.

“It's time to right a wrong, Iskander,” Borger said. “The golden chalice will soon be yours. Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Now do what you've been trained to do.”

Itani handed the phone to Puhlman and walked into his bedroom, where Puhlman had laid out clothing for the day, a new pair of jeans, white sneakers, a royal blue T-shirt on which W
ESTSIDE
B
OXING
C
LUB,
S
AN
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ATEO,
CA was emblazoned in white across the front, and a lightweight tan jacket with deep pockets at the sides. Affixed to the jacket was a large metal campaign button with Mortinson's smiling face on it, and the words “Mortinson for President.” His personalized invitation to the rally was in one of the jacket's pockets. He dressed, slipped the plastic-encased ID card around his neck, checked himself in the mirror, and rejoined Puhlman and Gibbons.

“You look great, kid,” Gibbons said.

Itani said nothing.

“Time to go,” said Puhlman.

Gibbons stayed behind as Puhlman and Itani left and walked four blocks before hailing a taxi. “The Ronald Reagan Building,” Puhlman told the driver, who wore an earpiece and talked into a hands-free phone. He didn't bother to turn to look at his fares and pulled sharply away from the curb, a defective muffler breaking the morning's stillness.

Puhlman paid the fare and stood with Itani, observing the crowd that had now swelled at one of two entrances to the plaza. The sound of a jazz band playing “Sweet Georgia Brown” mixed with the noise from the gathered. As Puhlman looked into Itani's dark, doe-like eyes, he suffered a sudden twinge of regret. But it was soon replaced by a rush of adrenaline. He slapped Itani on the back and walked away.

As he distanced himself from the scene, he thought of the many months that had passed before he'd found the perfect subject for Borger, a young former prizefighter named Iskander Itani with a built-in hatred of Jews, Israel, and anyone who supported the Israeli state. So much had gone into preparing Itani to assassinate George Mortinson—the weeks of hypnotic sessions conducted by Borger, the lies about resurrecting Itani's boxing career, keeping him under wraps at the house, turning him into a pawn, a cat's paw as the French fable termed it—and finally this day had come, proof that with the right subject, and in the hands of a master hypnotist like Borger, the perfect assassin could be created.

It had gone smoothly except for the incident with Elena. Fortunately, that had happened near the end of the process, too late to interfere with the plans. It was all up to Itani now. He'd been thoroughly indoctrinated, including hours spent practicing using the small Smith & Wesson handgun. Puhlman had suggested taking him to a firing range, but Borger had rejected the idea because of the possibility of it being traced back and because he was confident that Itani didn't need to practice actually shooting the weapon. It would be loaded with five bullets when he picked it up from where it would be left inside the plaza. All he had to do was point it at Mortinson and pull the trigger. You didn't need marksmanship practice to kill someone from a foot away.

Puhlman had a taxi drop him two blocks from the house and walked the rest of the way.

Gibbons paced the room. “Where's the kid?” he asked.

“I dropped him off.”

“Where?”

“It doesn't matter. Come on, let's get out of here.”

They toted their luggage back to where Puhlman had gotten out of the taxi and hailed another.

“Reagan National Airport,” Puhlman told the driver.

As they drove, Puhlman asked whether Gibbons had his false driver's license to show to security.

“Yeah, it's right here.” He pulled his wallet from his pants pocket, retrieved the license, and showed it to Puhlman.

“That's your real license,” Puhlman said. “What the hell are you carrying that for?”

“I got the phony one here, too,” Gibbons grumbled and flashed it in front of Puhlman's face.

“Just don't get them mixed up at the airport,” Puhlman said. “Let's not screw up now.”

*   *   *

Itani joined the line of people waiting to be granted access to the mall as he'd been instructed by Borger, his invitation in hand. People in front and behind chatted about many things, including the potential benefits to the nation of a Mortinson presidency. Itani heard them, but the words meant nothing. He was in his own hypnotic-induced world, his mind filled only with what he'd been told to do by Sheldon Borger.

“I love that music,” Mac Smith said. He, Annabel, Nic Tatum, and Cindy Simmons stood in line a few people behind Itani. Smith was a devoted jazz lover and lately had been transferring his extensive collection of vinyl records to compact discs.