He was looking forward to the interview, which would probably focus on his clean water legislation. And with that a burst of pure happiness within him — he now had Boyd’s support. The bill would surely pass. Other topics would come up, of course, but at this stage of his career, so many years of elected office under his belt, so many days of political battle, he was confident he could answer or evade any question aimed at him by the probing, but easily anticipated, journalists.
“No sign, sir.”
Peter would be referring to the man in the throwaway attire they’d seen earlier. Probably just another citizen on the streets of Manhattan. One of millions. A worker, a professor, a tourist.
But then it occurred to him that if anyone knew of his conversation with the president and was inclined to make sure that he did
If he died, the governor would appoint a new senator to finish out his term, and that man or woman would absolutely not support the president’s plan.
Just then he happened to notice someone across the square looking his way. He was big and dark-complected. Not of mixed race, it seemed, but Anglo with olive-tinted skin.
Looking down at his phone, he strode forward along a route that would soon intercept the two men.
His suit jacket was a touch too large, and the senator wondered if the man was armed.
“Peter.”
“I made him too, sir.”
“He alone?”
“Can’t tell. On the street, yes. But somebody else in a building? Don’t know.”
Too many windows for a shooter to fire from.
Was he a colleague of the man who had followed him earlier?
And, if he was, and Talese was their target, what would their mission be here in public?
Although, thinking back to some of those cases he’d run as a prosecutor, it was astonishing how many professional killers had gunned down someone in the middle of a crowded street and even the most seemingly cooperative witnesses saw nothing helpful.
The large man was getting closer and ignoring Talese and his guard — or so it seemed. His eyes taking in the area, the people, the windows, the cars...
Talese felt his heart thud at triple the usual pace.
He slowed.
And then a sharp voice sounded behind him.
“Senator?”
Talese turned fast.
Was this it? A bullet?
Peter spun about too, his hand inside his jacket.
But the man who approached wore a gold shield on his belt.
NYPD detective.
Talese’s face tightened into a querying look. He glanced around, noting that the man on the intersecting path was getting closer yet.
“Detective, there’s—” Talese began.
But the cop cut him off, saying, with irritation, “Your phone’s off.”
“My... Oh.” He fished in his pocket. He’d shut it off, per the rules of meeting with the president — so it could be used neither as a recording device nor as a homing tracker to guide a Hellfire missile.
“I’m Lon Sellitto.”
Peter said, once again, “I’ll see some ID, please.”
Talese expected the bulky man, in a wrinkled raincoat, to gripe. He was wearing a badge, after all. But without hesitating, he offered a card.
The guard examined it and sent a text. In a matter of seconds, the phone hummed. He nodded to his boss. “Legit.”
“Look,” Talese said, nodding over his shoulder, “there’s somebody—”
He didn’t need to finish the sentence because Sellitto was lifting a hand in greeting to the very person the senator was referring to.
The big somber man joined them and displayed his own badge. It resembled that of an old-time sheriff.
“I’m U.S. marshal Michael Quayle, Senator. Your phone’s off.”
“I know, I know.” Talese revived the unit and it immediately began chiming with texts and reports of voice mail messages.
“All right, Detective, Marshal. What’s this about?”
Sellitto said, “After we’re out of the open, Senator.”
“I really want—”
“Out of the open,” Quayle echoed in a tone that would accept no argument.
A black SUV pulled to the curb and squealed to a stop. The marshal gestured for the senator to get in first, which he did. This vehicle seemed a lot more than merely bullet resistant.
When the men were inside, Sellitto said to the driver, “Federal building.”
“Yessir.”
The Suburban galloped off, bounding hard on the uneven streets. No one wore belts and Talese had to grip the handhold firmly.
“Okay.” The senator looked pointedly at the detective.
Sellitto said, “You’re familiar with the crane accidents in the city.”
“Sure. A domestic terror outfit wants affordable housing units.”
“No. That was a cover. To keep us focused away from what the unsub’s really got in mind.”
“Which is?”
“You dead.”
Talese nodded slowly. So perhaps his concerns today were not so paranoid after all.
“Who is it?”
“We know the identity of the mechanic. But not who’s hired him.”
“My family...”
“They’re safe. We have a team in your house.”
“He’s... This man? The mechanic? Where is he?”
“We don’t know. We’re looking for him now.”
“How did you find out?”
