The jogger passed a tree, then started up Seventeenth Street toward the White House. The end of the Reflecting Pool, at the base of the Lincoln Memorial, was designated as the kill zone. The assassin took aim The jogger reached the zone. She discharged her weapon, the suppressor muffling the report. The subject took a stride, then collapsed onto the lawn like a child exhausted from play.
The assassin rolled onto her back in the cool grass. She felt the tension seep from her pores and drain away. She gave herself one moment of respite, then in a fluid motion, sat up and drew her lightweight woolen cape around her body.
Without looking back at the scene, she pulled the rifle and the cryogenic cooler under the folds of her cape. These items had to be disposed of according to her plan. She made her way across the lawn of the Washington Monument, crossing Constitution Avenue and strolling quickly up Fifteenth Sheet. Her body, tense just moments before, relaxed as she cut through Pershing Park, crossed E Sheet, and arrived at the Hotel Washington where her limousine waited.
The Washington Post
Senator Dies While Jogging
Jack crossed the tiled floor of his father’s kitchen, his footsteps echoing in the stillness. He thought back over the past week. The days were blurred. All he could remember were snatches of time, glimpses of the events that had transpired. He felt as if he were on remote control. The refrigerator door swung open easily. Thee cans of soda were the only contents. Jack popped the top of one of them and chugged two gulps. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to eat or drink anything else all day.
He sat in a kitchen chair, and set the soda can on the table. His gaze landed on the telephone. The last time he’d spoken to his father, Jack thought, he’d probably been sitting in this very spot. Jack dropped his face into his hands and rubbed his dry eyes. The tears had yet to come. Everything felt surreal, distant and detached, as if he were watching a movie in which he was the star.
Jack noted the time. 1:35 P.M. The funeral had been that morning, followed by a reception at his father’s secretary’s home. She’d made all of the arrangements, and for that Jack was grateful.
He stood, then wandered into his father’s study. The room felt cold and dead. At one time, his father’s energy had radiated in the masculine air of his office, but now that atmosphere was gone. Vanished with the one person he’d loved and respected most in the world. Jack’s heart ached, a tangible persistent pain that weighted his chest.
Bookcases lined the walls. The shelves were filled with books and the memorabilia of an accomplished diplomat and politician. Jack scanned the collection, his eyes stopping on pictures of his father standing next to various world leaders. On the fireplace mantel was a picture of himself, at age eight with his mother and father. Now, Jack thought, he was all alone.
His mother had died when he was just a boy, then his wife, and now his father. Some things were beyond his control, he told himself, yet he remained unconvinced.
He made his way around his father’s large oak desk, sat in his high-backed leather chair, and picked up the phone. The scent of his father’s aftershave lingered on the receiver. Jack closed his eyes and swallowed hard. He paused for a few moments, then dialed his secretary.
With any luck his secretary, Maureen, would be in. No matter where Jack worked, Maureen was a constant he insisted on having.
Maureen answered on the second ring. “How are you?”
“I’m hanging in.”
“What can I do to help?”
“Everything’s been taken care of.” Jack raked his fingers through his hair. “Right now, I just need to know what
“You need to take some time off. Take care of yourself for once.” Maureen’s voice was soothing.
“No, the best thing for me right now is to get back to work. Sitting around here will make me crazy.”
“They’ve already assigned someone else to the Unabomber story.”
“What?” Jack slammed his hand against the desk. “I landed the interview with Kaczynski, it’s my story. Why the hell did they do that? Call those bastards and tell them I’m on it. Forget it, I’ll call them myself.”
