“You have any antacid?” she asked Ricardo.
He took his eyes off the road for a moment. “You’ve come to the right place,” he said, opening the glove box and handing over a roll of chalky tablets. “If nothing else, we always have antacid.”
“Thanks,” she said, swallowing one down.
Downtown loomed into view in the distance, the tall buildings reaching up into the sky, casting murky reflections over the bay. A thin layer of gray cloud obscured most of the sunlight. As a thin mist of rain began to fall, June’s thoughts turned to Jack.
Since their relationship had blossomed beyond that of doctor and patient, June had visited him in D.C, or New York where he still held private law offices. Each time, she had fostered hopes for romance, and each time she had gone home empty hearted. Now it seemed as if Amy’s prediction might be coming true; someone as high-profile as Jack Melendez, presidential hopeful and former US Ambassador, would be too busy to carry on a bicoastal relationship. June’s busy schedule as a neurosurgeon made things even more difficult. Not only had their relationship been difficult logistically, but their time spent together always felt a little awkward, especially if Jack had other things on his mind.
This weekend, however, June had different plans.
Chapter 15
AFTER A HASTY and disappointing lunch in the hotel restaurant, Leopold and Jerome had gone back upstairs to complete their sweep of the living areas. Content everything was in order, they headed next door to the Washington State Convention Center to run a check of the auditorium and public areas. The short walk across the plaza allowed Leopold the opportunity to scout for possible vantage points. He concluded there were many. Above, tall buildings overlooked the courtyard, hundreds of windows providing plenty of hiding places for a sniper, all with a direct line of sight.
Built in the late Eighties, the convention center had space for more than ten thousand people throughout its glass-and-steel-fronted halls. With dozens of entrances and exits, Leopold was sure the Secret Service had special agents in place to cover the event, but they would be focused on guarding the President, leaving Jack Melendez largely unprotected if anything went wrong.
The center was busy, many of the smaller rooms hosting public events, but the main auditorium and ballroom were closed off. Leopold headed for the reception desk, ID badge held up in front of him.
“Good afternoon, sir. How can I help?” the receptionist said. Male, early forties, clipped hair, his accent had traces of upper Midwest.
“You had a call through from First Hill Suites. We’re here for the security sweep,” Leopold said. Jerome stood behind him.
The receptionist checked both their ID cards. “Sure, I got you down. You need to speak with one of the teams on site. They should be able to let you through.” He pointed across the lobby. “You can check in with Peterson, just over there.”
Leopold nodded. Running mental checks in his head, he led the way across the hall toward the security offices. The convention center atrium was mostly glass, brightly lit, nowhere to hide. Beyond that, architectural plans suggested a more complex layout, with mazes of corridors and meeting rooms. On top of the complement of staff, there could be as many as eight to ten thousand people milling around on a busy day, making it easy to disappear into the crowds.
As with any high-profile figure, the security detail was trained to keep to the shadows. In most cases, any assassination attempt would be attempted without breaking cover; traps set, rather than an ambush. Made for an easier getaway, assuming the attackers had any intention of getting out alive. The most likely approach would be explosives, set to detonate remotely or with a timer. With the convention center posting its schedules online in advance, either would be a possibility.
After that, an attack using a long-ranged rifle was always an option, but rare for an indoor event. Any sniper would need to find refuge within the complex and stay hidden, and Leopold was sure the Secret Service had men posted in likely vantage points. Any gunman would also likely favor a suppressor to mask the sound of the shot, so accuracy would be compromised. Three hundred feet would probably be a safe enough distance for a head shot, especially without wind, but that limited the number of places to hide.
A less likely, but more terrifying, prospect was chemical attack. A toxic payload could easily be hidden within the ventilation systems and released at will. This approach would also take out most of the bystanders in the building, meaning maximum chaos during egress. Thankfully, the chances of getting hold of chemical weapons without the CIA or FBI finding out about it were slim to none, and the costs associated with buying even the cheapest neurotoxins were astronomical. Success became even less plausible if someone tried importing them, thanks to strict border controls and an international crackdown on chemical terrorism. A potential attacker wouldn’t be able to purchase so much as rat poison without the UN, MI6, or the CIA finding out.