“Can’t say.” Avery examined the pass and handed it back. “You have a work order?”
Dobbens gave the man his clipboard. “Hey, if you want to check it out, you can call that number up top. That’s the field-operations office at company headquarters in Baltimore. Ask for Mr. Griffin.”
Avery talked into his radio, ordering his men to do just that. “Do you mind if we look at the truck?”
“Be my guest,” Dobbens replied. He led the two agents around. He noted also that four men were keeping a very close eye on things, and that they were widely separated, with their hands free. Others were scattered across the yard. He yanked open the sliding door and waved the two agents inside.
The agents saw a mass of tools and cables and test equipment. Avery let his subordinate do the searching. “Do you have to go back there now?”
“The transformer might go out, man. I could let it, but the folks in the neighborhood might be upset if the lights went off. People are like that, you know? Do you mind if I ask who you are?”
“Secret Service.” Avery held up his ID. Dobbens was taken aback.
“Jeez! You mean the President’s back there?”
“I can’t say,” Avery replied. “What’s the problem with the transformer — you said it was new?”
“Yeah, it’s an experimental model. It uses an inert cooling agent instead of PBBs, and it has a built-in surge-suppressor. That’s probably the problem. It looks like the unit’s temperature-sensitive for some reason. We’ve adjusted it several times, but we can’t seem to get it dialed in right. I’ve been on the project for a couple of months. Usually I let my people do it, but this time the boss wanted me to eyeball it myself.” He shrugged. “It’s my project.”
The other agent came out of the van and shook his head. Avery nodded. Next the chief agent called the radio van, whose occupants had called Baltimore Gas & Electric and confirmed what Alex had told them.
“You want to send a guy to watch us?” Dobbens asked.
“No, that’s okay. How long will it take?” Avery asked.
“Your guess is as good as mine, sir. It’s probably something simple, but we haven’t figured it out yet. “The simple ones are the ones that kill you.”
“There’s a storm coming in. I wouldn’t want to be up on a pole in one of those,” the agent observed.
“Yeah, well, while we’re sitting here, we’re not getting much work done. Everything okay with you guys?”
“Yeah, go ahead.”
“You really can’t tell me who’s in the neighborhood?”
Avery smiled. “Sorry.”
“Well, I didn’t vote for him anyway.” Dobbens laughed.
“Hold it!” the second agent called.
“What’s the matter?”
“That left-front tire.” The man pointed.
“Goddammit, Louis!” Dobbens growled at the driver. The steel belt was showing on part of the tire.
“Hey, boss, it’s not my fault. They were supposed to change it this morning. I wrote it up Wednesday,” the driver protested. “”I got the order slip right here.”
“All right, just take it easy.” Dobbens looked over to the agent. “Thanks, man.”
“Can’t you change it?”
“We don’t have a jack. Somebody lifted it. That’s a problem with company trucks. Something is always missing. It’ll be all right. Well, we got a transformer to fix. See ya.” Alex reboarded the truck and waved as the vehicle pulled off.
“Good one, Louis.”
The driver smiled. “Yeah, I thought the tire was a nice touch. I counted fourteen.”
“Right. Three in the trees. Figure four more in the house. They’re not our problem.” He paused, looking at the clouds that were building on the horizon. “I hope Ed and Willy made out all right.”
“They did. All they had to do was hose down one pigmobile and switch cars. The pigs here were more relaxed than I expected,” Louis observed.
“Why not? They think we’re someplace else.” Alex opened a toolbox and removed his transceiver. The agent had seen it and not questioned it. He couldn’t tell that the frequency range had been altered. There were no guns in the van, of course, but radios were far deadlier. He radioed what he’d learned and got an acknowledgment. Then he smiled. The agents hadn’t even asked about the two extension ladders on the roof. He checked his watch. Rendezvous was scheduled in ninety minutes . . .
“The problem is, there really isn’t a civilized way to eat corn on the cob,” Cathy said. “Not to mention buttering it.”
“It was excellent, though,” the Prince noted. “From a local farm, Jack?”
“Picked ’em off the stalk this afternoon,” Ryan confirmed. “That’s the best way to get it.”
Sally’d become a slow eater of late. She was still laboring at her food, but nobody seemed anxious to leave the table.
“Jack, Cathy, that was a wonderful dinner,” His Highness pronounced.
His wife agreed. “And no after-dinner speechmaking!”
“I guess all that formal stuff gets to be tiresome,” Robby noted, trying to ask a question that he couldn’t voice: What’s it like to be a prince?
“It wouldn’t be so bad if the speeches could be original, but I’ve been listening to the same one for years!” he said wryly. “Excuse me. I mustn’t say such things, even around friends.”
“It’s not all that different at a History Department meeting,” Jack said.
At Quantico, Virginia, the phone rang. The FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team had its own private building, located at the end of the long line of firing ranges that served the Bureau’s training center. An engineless DC-4 sat behind it, and was used to practice assault techniques on hijacked aircraft. Down the hill was the “Hostage House” and other facilities used every day for the team members to hone their skills. Special Agent Gus Werner picked up the phone.
“Hi, Gus,” Bill Shaw said.
“Have they found ’em yet?” Werner asked. He was thirty-five, a short, wiry man with red hair and a brushy mustache that never would have been allowed under Hoover’s directorship.
“No, but I want you to assemble an advance team and fly them up. If something breaks, we may have to move fast.”
“Fair enough. Where are we going, exactly?”
“Hagerstown, the State Police barracks. S-A-C Baltimore will be waiting for you.”
“Okay, I’ll take six men. We can probably get moving in thirty or forty minutes, as soon as the chopper gets here. Buzz me if anything happens.”
“Will do. See ya.” Shaw hung up.
Werner switched buttons on the phone and alerted the helicopter crew. Next he walked across the building to the classroom on the far side. The five men of his ready-response group were lounging about, mostly reading. They’d been on alert status for several days. This had increased their training routines somewhat, but it was mainly to defend against boredom that came from waiting for something that probably wouldn’t happen. Nighttimes were devoted to reading and television. The Red Sox were playing the Yankees on TV. These were not Brooks Brothers FBI agents. The men were in baggy jumpsuits lavishly equipped with pockets. In addition to being experienced field agents, nearly all were veterans of combat or peacetime military service, and each man was a match-quality marksman who fired several boxes of ammunition per week.
“Okay, listen up,” Werner said. “They want an advance team in Hagerstown. The Chopper’ll be here in half an hour.”
“There’s a severe thunderstorm warning,” one objected lightly.
“So take your airsick pills,” Werner advised.
“They find ’em yet?” another asked.
“No, but people are getting a little nervous.”
“Right.” The questioner was a long-rifleman. His custom-made sniper rifle was already packed in a foam-lined case. The team’s gear was in a dozen duffle bags. The men buttoned their shirts. Some headed off to the bathroom for a preflight pitstop. None were especially excited. Their job involved far more waiting than doing. The Hostage Rescue Team had been in existence for years, but it had yet to rescue a single hostage. Instead its members were mainly used as a special SWAT team, and they had earned a reputation as awesome as it was little known, except within the law-enforcement community.
“Wow,” Robby said. “Here it comes. This one’s going to be a beauty.” In the space of ten minutes, the wind had changed from gentle breezes to gusts that made the high-ceilinged house resonate.
“It was a dark and stormy night,” Jack chuckled. He went into the kitchen. Three agents were making sandwiches to take out to the men by the road. “I hope you guys have raincoats.”
“We’re used to it,” one assured him.
“At least it will be a warm rain,” his British colleague thought. “Thank you very much for the food and coffee.” The first rumble of distant thunder rolled through the house.
“Don’t stand under any trees,” Jack suggested. “Lightning can ruin your whole day.” He returned to the dining room. Conversation was still being made around the table. Robby was back to discussing flying. The current war-story was about catapults.