Abuse of Power - Michael Savage [137]
“They lead straight to the basement.”
“We’re aware of that. That’s why we put a security man down there. But those things were locked down years ago, and even if someone managed to get inside, there’s no possible way—”
Jack’s earpiece suddenly came alive. “Jack? Max? Does anyone read me?”
It was Doc Matson.
Jack immediately responded. “Here, Doc. What’s going on?”
Forsyth and his two companions all jerked back. They gave Jack a quizzical look.
“The hatch is open and Tony’s down,” Doc said. “They got through, three of them in white coats. All Arab. They’re posing as servants and one of them is strapped to explode.”
Jack felt the bottom drop from his stomach. “Is Tony alive?”
“Yeah, he’s coming around.”
Forsyth frowned. “Hatfield?”
“Doc, get him into that tunnel and get the hell away from here,” Jack said. “Max, Karras? You two get out of here as—”
“Who the hell are you talking to?” Forsyth demanded.
One of the other agents saw the small device in Jack’s ear. He pointed it out to Forsyth.
“Are you completely out of your mind?” Forsyth demanded.
Jack got to his feet. “I told you, we don’t have time to argue about this! The bombers are here. They’re posing as—”
“Sit down, goddamn it! This interview isn’t over until I say it’s—”
“We don’t have time!” Jack shouted, then suddenly swung his arm straight out. He clotheslined one of the special agents as he ran forward, then flipped the other as he tried to grab Jack from behind. The agent went over his wounded shoulder, but that only pissed Jack off. He was out the door and running before Forsyth could reach his shoulder holster, headed through the foyer toward the courtyard. He came to a stop at the museum entrance and stared out at the crowd.
The place was packed. The glitterati had gathered around the podium and were still applauding as the President put his hands up to silence them. Jack scanned the courtyard desperately, looking for white jackets, but they seemed to be everywhere and there was no way of knowing who might be their guy.
Would it be Hassan Haddad?
As the applause died down, the President said, “I want to thank you all for coming here tonight to this important event. A gathering of people of all political persuasions, who have joined to celebrate the art of a religion and culture that has given the world so much, yet has come under great scrutiny these last several years, much of it negative.”
“Given the world so much,” Jack thought bitterly as he heard footsteps pounding behind him. He didn’t have to look back to know it was Forsyth and his men racing down the hall. They would have radioed other agents, the Secret Service. Operatives would be peeling off, converging on this spot. He stepped into the courtyard and started threading his way through the crowd, searching it desperately, looking for Arab faces to match the white jackets.
Looking for a man with a wispy goatee.
“Hatred takes many forms,” the President continued, “and much of that hatred stems from our lack of knowledge about those we hate. We form ideas about others based on stereotypes, and those stereotypes, while sometimes grounded in a sliver of reality, do not tell us about the whole person. The whole culture.”
As he continued to search, Jack noted movement around him, agents with earpieces wending toward him from all sides. He ignored them, shifting his gaze from white jacket to white jacket.
“So tonight, thanks to the work of the California Palace of the Legion of Honor, we have a chance to see a side of the Islamic culture that we don’t often see. A glimpse into the artistry and passion that helps to define a people.”
Then Jack saw it. Not a face. Not the sign he expected, but there it was—a red stain spreading across the shoulder of one of those white jackets, and he sure as hell didn’t think the guy had cut himself in the kitchen.
Not in the chest he hadn’t.
Jack shot forward, shoving people aside, moving toward that red-stained jacket as it weaved in and out of the crowd, getting closer to the podium. Jack suddenly felt hands grabbing him, roughly