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the other divisions are financially self-supporting—and our military budget this year would be somewhere around two billion eurofrancs, taking into account …”
A dark-suited photographer with long hair and a beard moved from his third row seat out to the aisle.
“I hadn’t realized your organization was that well-heeled,”
Waldo Hinckle said.
“Mr. Hinckle,” said Dr. Rampart, “Cadre allies did well over sixty billion eurofrancs’ worth of business last year, of which the Cadre took in just under seven billion eurofrancs in payment for services rendered. I would think that the approximately 12 percent overhead we represent—”
The bearded photographer reached into his camera, pulling out a .32 caliber automatic pistol. Lorimer was up to the fourth row.
The gunman raised his automatic pistol toward Dr. Vreeland. Elliot was the first to see the photographer raise the gun at his father. Everything that happened in the next second and a half seemed in slow motion to him. He reached into his holster and pulled out his own pistol. It did not seem that he, himself, was doing it.
“—was not unreasonable, considering—” Dr. Rampart saw the gunman and stopped short.
The assassin now had his automatic pistol pointed directly at Dr. Vreeland. He shouted, “Death to traitors!”
Elliot now had his revolver out but did not have it fully raised. Lorimer walked into the assassin’s visual range—not in front of the gun, but simply within his range of peripheral sight. The assassin noticed her and seemed thrown off stride, distracted by her presence. Dr. Vreeland looked up, seeing that it was his own chest the gun was being aimed at.
Somebody screamed.
Elliot had automatically gone into a precisely correct Weaver 252
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stance—left foot slightly forward, right hand—its arm slightly bent—aiming the gun, left hand holding the right fist to steady it …and during that mere instant when the assassin was distracted by Lorimer, Elliot fired once at his head. The .38 bullet from Elliot’s revolver struck the assassin’s head, knocking off a wig and tearing a chunk out of his skull. A final muscle spasm knocked him back against the chairs, and from there to the aisle floor.
The image of his daughter standing over him was the last thing the assassin saw before he died.
There were more screams. Several people threw themselves onto the floor.
Lorimer averted her eyes, then started pushing her way through the crowd to Elliot. Along the way, she casually grabbed the camera of a news photographer who had snapped a picture of the body, and smashed it to the floor. Cadre guards were now pulling reporters and other photographers away from the dead man—blood seeping slowly from his head—cordoning off the death scene.
Lorimer finally reached Elliot, who was standing at the table, being steadied by Dr. Rampart and his father. With a strange tone in her voice that he had not heard before, she told him:
“Thank you. You’ve just killed my father.”
Elliot gasped.
Then Lorimer reeled a moment and began throwing up onto the floor.
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Chapter 27
The President of the United States ordered all political prisoners released immediately. At eight thirty the morning of Friday, March 2, Elliot Vreeland, his father, and Lorimer stood at a plate-glass observation window at Metropolis Airport, New York, watching a domestic-route jetliner taxiing into its berth. The President’s order had been delayed three days, awaiting the resumption of traffic routing by former government personnel who had formed the North American Air Controllers Syndicate. A few minutes later, passengers began deplaning through a portable tunnel. Among the passengers were Cathryn and Denise Vreeland.
Son and father saw mother and sister at about the same time they saw them also, and the two parties began rushing toward each other, waving madly.
Hugging. Kissing. More hugging.
“Are you all right? Did they hurt you?”
“We’re fine, just fine.”
Everybody was just fine.
Elliot introduced Lorimer to his mother and sister. He had a feeling that Lorimer and Denise would get along splendidly. The five of them began walking through the long, fluorescent tunnel to the parking lot, exchanging information and stories.
“No, they didn’t hurt us at all,” Mrs. Vreeland explained.
“We were given VIP treatment from the moment the FBI arrested us …”
“It was so horrible when we heard about what happened Tuesday,” Denise said. “We’d all gotten very close, even just 254
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being together a few days. I got a chance to know your friend Phillip, and there was this one girl my own age, Barbara …”