President's assassin

Had I? Well, I had tried to put all their murderous asses into the electric chair. But that hadn't worked out obviously. I shook my head.

"Good. Don't. Stay real polite and respectful. These people are go

Je

Hah-hah. This went on a while longer, the two of them keeping it lighthearted, like this was just a big lark that stupid little Sean really shouldn't worry about. Then Rita began relating anecdotes from past cases she thought might be illustrative and instructive. Of course, they all had happy endings.

Then phase one-called, I think, "Motivating and Instructing the Idiot"-ended, and three new agents hustled into the conference room.

Rita introduced her colleagues, whose names I immediately forgot. One studied me a moment, then reached into a big bag, withdrew a flak jacket, and handed it to me. Rita said, "Try it on. Just a precaution."

Je

I very reasonably pointed out, "Not having a gun could pose bigger problems."

Rita Sanchez had obviously been through all this before, because she brushed my objection aside and informed me, "Now it's time to show our bag of tricks. You'll be driving a Suburban-that's your weapon. It's a special model with a nitrous oxide-charged 450-horsepower engine, it's bulletproof, and nearly bombproof. Curb weight's four tons, enough to bash aside anything that gets in your path. So if this goes to shit, push the nitrous oxide button, hit the pedal, and scoot."

"I'd rather have the gun, thank you."

She smiled at me, turned to one of her assistants, and said, "Get the suppository."

The agent opened a small briefcase, peeked inside, and then withdrew a tiny metal cylinder, which he held up for me to examine.

"Wait a minute-You're not sticking that up my butt."

Rita thought this was very fu

And more of the same. Basically, the plan was that I would go wherever Jason sent me, would rise to unexplored heights of courteousness and civility, and would deliver the package, which turned out to be not one package but fifteen oversized Samsonite suitcases stuffed with fifty million in used cash.

Option A was to unload the suitcases at the location of their choice and then depart, Sean's ass intact. Under option B, Sean would end up escorting the money containers a little longer than anticipated.

Nobody wanted to dwell much on option B. This was not a particularly good sign.

About twenty minutes into this, Je

Great-my final chance for a reprieve just flew out the window. But if this thing worked out okay, maybe I could ask him for a job. Of course, if it didn't work out, I wouldn't have a job problem and his would just be starting.

Rita and Je

But it would never come to that, Rita assured me. In the unlikely event I became a hostage, and the completely unlikely event the bad guys gave them the slip, Rita would flip on the little transmitter and I'd be in broadcast mode. Once I made face-to-face contact with the perps, their minutes were numbered.

The Army has a saying: Prior pla

A very long day had become an eternity

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Eventually the preparation phase ended and we shifted into phase two, titled, I think, "Don't Let the Idiot Think About It."

Somebody wheeled a television into the conference room, and we sipped coffee, shared a tray of stale tuna sandwiches, observed the news coverage, and tried to act cool and relaxed.

Je

It did not escape my attention that Je

At one point, Je

I was sure this routine came straight from the Bureau manual chapter called "Preparing the Happy Lamb for the Slaughter."

Nor did it escape my notice that Je

In a way, I was delighted she had her head in the game. In a larger way, I really wasn't.

Eventually I asked Rita, "Why do they want cash?"

"It's why bad guys do the things they do."

"I mean-"

"I know what you mean. You thought crooks all had numbered accounts in some overseas bank they want you to wire money to."

"Don't they?"

"Lots do want it done electronically. These days, the more sophisticated ones don't."

"Why not?"

"We now have the ability to put electronic tracers on it. Don't matter how many times they move it, we'll still be waiting at the end, when they try to get it out of the bank."

Intermittingly George appeared on the tube creating what I thought was a splendid illusion of professional confidence, ballooning into optimism. A few pesky reporters weren't buying this act and kept trying to worm embarrassing or insightful information from him, which George parried with wonderfully vague responses and his perpetual I-know-something-you-don't smirk. I usually found that expression a