“I’m so relieved to hear that,” Kelli said. “Tell me, would a steamer trunk be large enough?”
Everyone turned and stared at her.
57
The group moved up the hill from the Bowl, and Mike Freeman saw four of his men in their Strategic Services shirts standing on the grass, listening to the concert. He broke off from the group he was with.
“Good evening,” he said to the men.
They suddenly looked sheepish.
“What are you doing out here? You’re supposed to be manning the surveillance center, aren’t you?”
One of the men spoke up. “It’s very quiet around the hotel, because everybody’s at the concert,” he said. “Our supervisor said that we could come upstairs and listen for a while, he’d cover us and he’d radio if
anything came up.”
“Who is your supervisor tonight?” Mike asked.
“Rick,” the man said.
“And he’s down there by himself?”
“Yes, sir, like I said, there’s nothing going on.”
Mike’s mind was spinning backward to his earlier conversation with Steve Rifkin about the screening of his men. “Did the Secret Service search our bunker?” he asked.
The men looked at each other. “No, sir,” one of them said. “Not on my shift. I mean, we’re security; why would they search us?”
“Follow me,” Mike said, “but stay well back behind me.” He strode up to the entrance of the half-underground bunker, tapped in the security code, and quietly opened the door. He had a terrible, terrible feeling, and he was beginning to sweat. He unholstered his Glock and let himself into the bunker, then walked down the flight of stairs into a vestibule. The door to the surveillance room was closed. He tried the knob: locked from the inside. He switched the pistol to his left hand and fumbled for his key ring, finally found the right key, and inserted it into the lock, turning it slowly to avoid a loud click. He pushed the door open slowly and stepped into the room.
Rick was standing at the end of a workbench, inspecting something in front of him. He snapped open the locks of a case and folded down the lid.
Mike could see just enough of it to recognize the case as identical to the one the search had turned up in the wine storage room.
Rick rooted around in a pocket and came up with a T-shaped key. He inserted it into a slot at the top of the metal panel.
“If you turn that key, I’ll kill you where you stand,” Mike said quietly but firmly. He racked the slide on the pistol for emphasis.
Rick froze but said nothing. Mike walked forward, pressed the Glock to Rick’s head, and pushed him aside with his elbow. Mike’s left hand closed over his on the key. “Let it go right now,” he said, nuzzling Rick’s head with the barrel of the pistol.
Mike could feel him trying to turn it, but he held tightly to the younger man’s hand, pulling until the key left the slot. Mike took the key from him. “On your knees, back to me,” he said. He took the key from his hand as he went down and put it into his jacket pocket.
“Mr. Freeman,” a voice behind him said, “is everything all right?”
“Get me a pair of handcuffs from the equipment locker and get over here,” Mike said, holding his left hand out behind him. He heard the locker open, then the cuffs were placed in his hand. “Hands on top of your head, fingers interlaced,” he said to Rick, who complied. He cuffed the man, then put his foot between his shoulder blades and pushed him onto his belly. Then he turned toward the four waiting men.
“Get a manacle set from the equipment locker and secure this man hand and foot, then search him thoroughly. Then I want him on the floor under guard until the Secret Service comes for him.” He closed the case on the workbench. “Give them this case when they come. Now get back to your consoles.”
Mike walked up the stairs holstering his weapon and came out into the cool night air. His shirt was sticking to his body. He looked around. Now where did everybody go?
Applause rippled from the Bowl; cheering and whistling and the stamping of feet were heard. “Encore!” the crowd was shouting. Then the noise died, and Immi Gotham said, “Seventy-five years ago, very near this place, George Gershwin was at the piano working on the last song he ever wrote. A few days later, he was dead at the age of thirty-eight. This is the song he wrote.”
A piano introduction could be heard, then Gotham began to sing “Our Love Is Here to Stay.”
—
Stone sat beside Kelli Keane as she drove her electric cart rapidly along a path toward a row of cottages. Another cart followed, driven by the chief bomb technician. “His place is next door to mine,” she said, finally slowing to a halt. “Right there.” She pointed at a door. A “Do Not Disturb” sign hung on the knob.