Conspiracy by Stephen Coonts Page A

somehow in the war. That’s significant because Vietnam was believed to have been working on a program to assassinate American leaders three years ago.”
    â€œAnd that,” said Ruben dryly, “is why you are here and we are involved.”
    Jackson continued to fill in details, noting that McSweeney had served in Vietnam, which would make him an excellent candidate for a revenge plot. He also admitted that there was considerable room for skepticism. The NSA had a “robust” system in place for intercepting and monitoring Vietnamesecommunications, official and otherwise, and while these were being reviewed, no information had been gathered that revealed an assassination plot.
    â€œAlso, if Agent Forester thought that the threat originated from Vietnam, he would have communicated that to his superiors,” added Jackson. “And he did not.”
    â€œMaybe he didn’t get the chance,” said Lia.
    â€œPossibly.”
    â€œWhat did McSweeney do in Vietnam?” Dean asked.
    â€œHe was a Marine officer,” said Jackson. “Toward the end of the war, he served as a commanding officer with the strategic hamlet program in Quang Nam Province, outside of Da Nang.”
    â€œI know where it is,” said Dean.
    It was the same area where he had served. He didn’t know McSweeney, though he had heard of the strategic hamlet program—a risky, typically Marine-type program that had troops live with the Vietnamese. It was a good idea or a loony idea depending on who was talking about it. They all agreed it hadn’t worked.
    â€œHow do you feel about Vietnam, Charlie?” asked Rubens.
    Dean shrugged. “I don’t feel anything particularly.”
    â€œVery well. Then I want you and Lia to go there and find Agent Forester’s contact and see if you can get him to shed light on his message.” He looked at his watch. “Spend the rest of the day familiarizing yourself with Agent Forester and his investigation. Be back and ready to leave this evening.”

 
17
    THE SHOOTER HAD had a clear, easy shot from the fourth-floor window. He’d have been able to see the senator’s car arrive and had a good angle as he walked up toward the door. The shooter would have been able to see the decoy as well, assuming he had walked in the middle of the sidewalk.
    Charlie Dean knelt at the window, studying the view. Eighty-five yards, with traffic, people, distractions—it wasn’t surprising that the shooter had missed. Forget the fact that the rifle and ammunition were off-the-shelf: adrenaline would have been the shooter’s real enemy. How many people could even learn to control their breath under stress? It wasn’t easy. The instructors told Charlie he had a knack for it, but he didn’t think it was easy.
    And yet the setup seemed perfect. The shot was clear; there was no trace of a bullet, no trace of anyone in the room.
    That argued that the shooter was, if not a professional, someone who took extreme care, who’d thought about the setup a great deal.
    â€œWhat did he use to steady the gun?” Dean said, stepping back. “If he didn’t shoot from the window ledge, what did he use? Did he have a tripod? No way he took an offhand shot.”
    â€œHe puts something on the radiator there,” said Lia, pointing. “Takes it with him when he’s gone.”
    â€œNobody sees him.”
    Dean went back to the window and stared down. Maybe the guy was a pro, but one out of practice, a man who hadn’t killed in a long time. Someone like himself, who knew thetheory but had lost the steps, who got too excited when the moment came. Who’d missed—just as Dean had when the lion charged.
    â€œCharlie Dean, Charlie Dean—what are you thinking?” Lia asked.
    â€œI don’t know,” said Dean as he rose.
    He scanned the block, looking for anything that might have distracted the shooter. Then Dean