The next room he entered was smaller than the shooting room and very different in configuration. Floor-to-ceiling shelves housed all manner of detonators, wiring for explosives, and other equipment used by those intent on blowing up something as efficiently and effectively as possible. In the center of the room was a large worktable, where he sat and began massaging wires, transistors, timers, detonators and C-4 plastic explosives into multiple devices designed for massive destruction. He brought to this task the same attention to detail that had been present at the shooting range.
He hummed while he worked.
An hour later he went to yet another room that was set up completely unlike the first two. To the observer who could see only the interior of this space and not the ones housing guns, explosives and human chattel, there was nothing sinister or malign here. It was an artist’s studio that lacked nothing for the creation of art in practically any medium, except for natural light. That was impossible in a place so many meters below ground. Yet the artificial light here was acceptable.
Neatly hanging on one wall were shelves holding heavy coats and boots, special helmets, thick gloves, red bubble lights, axes, oxygen tanks and other like equipment. The gear wouldn’t be needed for a while yet, but it was good to be prepared. Rushing now could mean disaster. Patience was required. And yet he looked forward to the moment when it would all come together, when he could finally say that success was his. Yes, patience.
He settled himself down at a worktable and for the next two hours labored with deep concentration, painting, cutting, erecting and fine-tuning a series of works that would never grace the inside of a museum or, for that matter, any personal collection. Yet they were as important to him as the most distinguished masterpieces of any era. In a very substantial way all this work was his masterpiece, and like many of the old masters’ works, it had been years in the making.
He continued his labors, counting down to the time when his greatest achievement would finally be complete.
CHAPTER
24
MICHELLE WAS ON HER LAPTOP, surfing through the Secret Service’s database and finding some interesting items. She was focused and absorbed, and yet when her cell phone rang, she sprang off the bed and grabbed it. The screen flashed “Caller ID Block,” but she answered it anyway, hoping it was King. It was. His initial words were very welcome.
“Where do you want to meet?” she asked in answer to his query.
“Where are you staying?”
“At a quaint little B and B about four miles from you off Route 29.”
“The Winchester?” he asked.
“That’s it.”
“Nice place. Hope you’re enjoying yourself.”
“I am now.”
“There’s an inn called the Sage Gentleman about a mile from where you are.”
“I passed it on the way here. Looks very clubby.”
“It is. I’ll meet you for lunch. Twelve-thirty?”
“I wouldn’t miss it. And, Sean, I appreciate your calling me.”
“Don’t thank me until you’ve heard what I have to say.”
They met on the broad porch that encircled the old Victorian-style home. King was dressed in a sport coat, green turtleneck and beige slacks, Maxwell in a long pleated black skirt and white sweater. The stylish dress boots she was wearing brought her up to within an inch of King’s height. Her dark hair fell across her shoulders, and she had even put on a bit of makeup, something she normally didn’t do. Secret Service work did not lend itself to fashion pleasantries. However, because your protectee often attended formal events with well-dressed, wealthy people, an agent’s wardrobe and grooming habits had to be up to the task, which wasn’t always easy. Thus an old agency adage was: Dress like a million bucks on a blue-collar paycheck.
King pointed at the dark blue Toyota Land Cruiser with roof racks in the parking lot.
“Is that yours?”
She nodded. “I’m into active sports on my time off, and that thing can go anywhere and carry anything I need.”
“You’re a Secret Service agent. When do you have any time off?”
They sat at a table in the rear of the restaurant. The place wasn’t too full, and they were enjoying about as much privacy as one could in a public place.
When the waiter came and asked if they were ready to order, Michelle immediately said, “Yes, sir.”
King smiled at this but said nothing until the waiter departed.
“It took me years to get over that.”