the only visitor wearing an FBI-issued Kevlar overcoat and FBI surveillance electronics.
"I'm here," he said for Andie's benefit.
"Don't talk unless you have to," she said, her voice in his earpiece. "If he sees your lips moving, he'll know you're wired."
Jack stood and waited, glancing about nervously at strangers coming and going from the museum. The block-long, granite - faced building was a classic design, and the fact that Jack actually recognized it as Beaux-Arts style was yet another disturbing sign that he was indeed forty. His last visit to the Smithsonian had been as a teenager, one of several bonding trips that Harry Swyteck had arranged in hopes of dealing with the rough spots in their relationship the same way he had always dealt with them: by pretending they didn't exist. The trip was nonetheless memorable, not because the Hope Diamond had turned out to be much smaller than Jack had expected, but because the burning question of the day was whether to commit suicide or homicide before his old man could drag him to every last one of the museum's 126 million specimens.
Jack's cell rang, and the display flashed "Out of Area," no incoming number. Jack answered it, and the instructions came quickly:
"Go inside to the rotunda. Walk around the stuffed elephant and come back outside."
The call ended before Jack could respond. It seemed like a pointless exercise, until Jack realized that the museums probably had metal detectors. It was a clever way for his caller to find out if he was armed. He wasn't--but he did worry that his wire would be detected, screwing up everything.
Andie's voice was suddenly in his ear, as if she could read his mind. "Don't worry about the metal detectors. The museum only has enough staff to turn them on at random intervals. Your caller obviously doesn't know that."
Jack was only partially assuaged. It somehow seemed way too predictable that the terrorist with a bazooka would get through security, but the good citizen trying to thwart a possible presidential assassination would be stopped.
Jack climbed the granite stairs and entered through the revolving door. The rotunda was as impressive as he'd remembered it, though some things had changed. The simulated habitat around the eight-ton African bull elephant in the center appeared more natural. And in the post-9/11 world, there were of course metal detectors. As Andie had predicted, however, Jack breezed right past them without setting off alarms. The security guards didn't pick up his FBI-issued surveillance equipment or Kevlar overcoat either. He paused to check out the elephant--he suddenly wondered if his caller was a Republican--and then he circled around and exited to the mall side of the museum.
Jack stopped at the top of the stairs, expecting the phone to ring at any moment. He heard only traffic noises from Madison Drive and the whistle of the wind through barren tree branches on the mall. A young mother pushed a stroller along the walkway. A man on the bench had his nose buried in the newspaper. At the base of the stairs, a docent was giving a brief history lesson to a group of tourists. Jack wondered if his caller had lost his nerve. It was starting to feel like a hoax, until he heard the voice from behind.
"This is for you."
Before Jack could speak--before he could even turn around and see what the guy had in his hand--an entire team of undercover FBI agents sprang into action. The man reading the newspaper, the mother pushing the stroller, the docent and his tourists-- every single one of them rushed forward, guns drawn.
"Drop your weapon!"
"I don't have no weapon!"
"Drop it!"
The man shrieked and jumped on Jack, causing them both to tumble down the granite steps. Jack braced himself for a gunshot from the attacker or even a barrage of firepower from the FBI. Rather than pummelingjack or trying to hurt him, however, the man was clutching him out of sheer terror. Andie's voice was in Jack's ear, but she was drowned out
"I'm here," he said for Andie's benefit.
"Don't talk unless you have to," she said, her voice in his earpiece. "If he sees your lips moving, he'll know you're wired."
Jack stood and waited, glancing about nervously at strangers coming and going from the museum. The block-long, granite - faced building was a classic design, and the fact that Jack actually recognized it as Beaux-Arts style was yet another disturbing sign that he was indeed forty. His last visit to the Smithsonian had been as a teenager, one of several bonding trips that Harry Swyteck had arranged in hopes of dealing with the rough spots in their relationship the same way he had always dealt with them: by pretending they didn't exist. The trip was nonetheless memorable, not because the Hope Diamond had turned out to be much smaller than Jack had expected, but because the burning question of the day was whether to commit suicide or homicide before his old man could drag him to every last one of the museum's 126 million specimens.
Jack's cell rang, and the display flashed "Out of Area," no incoming number. Jack answered it, and the instructions came quickly:
"Go inside to the rotunda. Walk around the stuffed elephant and come back outside."
The call ended before Jack could respond. It seemed like a pointless exercise, until Jack realized that the museums probably had metal detectors. It was a clever way for his caller to find out if he was armed. He wasn't--but he did worry that his wire would be detected, screwing up everything.
Andie's voice was suddenly in his ear, as if she could read his mind. "Don't worry about the metal detectors. The museum only has enough staff to turn them on at random intervals. Your caller obviously doesn't know that."
Jack was only partially assuaged. It somehow seemed way too predictable that the terrorist with a bazooka would get through security, but the good citizen trying to thwart a possible presidential assassination would be stopped.
Jack climbed the granite stairs and entered through the revolving door. The rotunda was as impressive as he'd remembered it, though some things had changed. The simulated habitat around the eight-ton African bull elephant in the center appeared more natural. And in the post-9/11 world, there were of course metal detectors. As Andie had predicted, however, Jack breezed right past them without setting off alarms. The security guards didn't pick up his FBI-issued surveillance equipment or Kevlar overcoat either. He paused to check out the elephant--he suddenly wondered if his caller was a Republican--and then he circled around and exited to the mall side of the museum.
Jack stopped at the top of the stairs, expecting the phone to ring at any moment. He heard only traffic noises from Madison Drive and the whistle of the wind through barren tree branches on the mall. A young mother pushed a stroller along the walkway. A man on the bench had his nose buried in the newspaper. At the base of the stairs, a docent was giving a brief history lesson to a group of tourists. Jack wondered if his caller had lost his nerve. It was starting to feel like a hoax, until he heard the voice from behind.
"This is for you."
Before Jack could speak--before he could even turn around and see what the guy had in his hand--an entire team of undercover FBI agents sprang into action. The man reading the newspaper, the mother pushing the stroller, the docent and his tourists-- every single one of them rushed forward, guns drawn.
"Drop your weapon!"
"I don't have no weapon!"
"Drop it!"
The man shrieked and jumped on Jack, causing them both to tumble down the granite steps. Jack braced himself for a gunshot from the attacker or even a barrage of firepower from the FBI. Rather than pummelingjack or trying to hurt him, however, the man was clutching him out of sheer terror. Andie's voice was in Jack's ear, but she was drowned out
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