Bullseye (Michael Bennett 9)

They didn’t look like it, of course.

Idly wandering around on the sidewalk in front of the flag-draped United Nations Plaza on First Avenue, clutching maps and a zoom lens Nikon, they looked like a young, stylish, maybe European couple touring the Big Apple for the first time.

As they walked west on 43rd, a street cleaner came down the street, churning a cloud of dust onto a rack of Citi Bikes before it made a U-turn. In the distant haze to the west, the green copper cathedral-like roof of Grand Central Terminal could be made out, and above it, the lip of the MetLife Building, where their target had set up his blind.

This morning’s question was, where would he set up his next one? Matthew thought, frustrated.

After their first attempt at taking out the British sniper had failed, it was all about outthinking the assassin now. And outmaneuvering him.

They needed to find this bastard, Matthew thought.

Find him and put him down once and fo

r all.

Sophie bought a half-pint of blueberries and some almonds and dates from a fruit seller on the corner of Second Avenue. They crossed the street and stopped and stood, chewing, beside a pay phone kiosk, silently watching the passing pedestrians and traffic on the avenue.

“Okay. What are the motorcade routes again?” Matthew said after he finished his nuts and berries.

“All right,” Sophie said. “From the Waldorf to the UN, you have four avenue blocks and seven cross streets. Because of the length of the motorcade, they hate making turns, so usually they cordon off Fiftieth or Forty-Eighth and take it all the way to blocked-off First Avenue and down several blocks south to the UN’s entrance.”

“That’s the most direct route, but they have to have alternatives,” Matthew said.

“They could do Park to Forty-Sixth to First, but that’s about it. They have several dozen vehicles, Matthew, and they need to get crosstown as quickly as possible.”

“It’ll be Fiftieth, Forty-Eighth, or Forty-Sixth, then, where the next attack will come,” Matthew said, nodding. “That’s where the motorcade is most vulnerable. Where it can be boxed in.”

“Do you still think it’ll be an attack on the motorcade itself?”

“Yes. He’s tried the long shot. It didn’t work out. He’ll want to be closer this time. Point-blank range, maybe, or ambush with the use of some sort of explosives. He needs to change tactics. That’s what I would do.”

“You’re right,” said Sophie. “He’s got everyone thinking long-range shot now, so it’s time to switch up the script. Go for an up-close, in-your-face surprise. But how? The president’s car is impenetrable.”

“So we’re told,” said Matthew, looking at her bleakly. “Remember that they said the Titanic was unsinkable. We need to expect the unexpected.”

“What do you mean?”

“Call it a hunch, Sophie. Intuition. I know this guy. He’s a perfectionist. Winning is everything to him. War inspires artistry, and this guy truly thinks he’s Michelangelo. If he can’t do this with pizzazz, he won’t do it at all.”

“But from where, Matthew?” Sophie said, looking up at the millions of windows. “Where will it come from?”

Matthew smiled and put his arm around his wife’s waist and kissed her.

“That’s what we’re here for, baby. We’re the dream team. We’re the hunters who hunt hunters. We’ll find him.”

“I don’t know, Matthew. Maybe we’re in too far this time.”

“We take it the whole way, babe,” Matthew said. “Just like we decided in the beginning. We have to find this fool. We have no choice.”

But what if he finds us first? Sophie thought, but didn’t say.

Chapter 48

My just-popped can of Diet Coke hissed along with the old radiator in the corner of the small, dark room as Paul Ernenwein and I sat in a too-warm, windowless, secure comm room in a nondescript FBI building on East 56th.

We were on the fourth floor, just down the hall from Paul’s office, sitting on metal folding chairs and watching a flat screen.

On it was a live feed of a blond couple walking west up East 43rd Street.