applause quietened, the supporters waiting. Cath Donaghue looked up and smiled again.
‘Before Jack arrives, I just wanted to thank you all for coming today.’ As if the honour was hers and Jack’s; as if, by being present at that place on that day, it was those in front of her who were doing the Donaghues a favour.
She looked around them again and smiled again. Take care of him, Dave, she prayed; make sure he gets here, please God don’t let me down.
‘It’s a great place to be, a great day to be here. Thank you all.’
Even after she had left, even after she was back in Room 394, the cheers were echoing round the Caucus Room and the applause was ringing down the white marble of the corridors.
It was eleven twenty-eight.
The 737 banked over the Potomac and began its run-in, the wing lights blinking against the silver and the silver brilliant against the morning sky.
Jordan glanced at Donaghue and realized he was looking at the White House.
‘Ready, Jack?’
What are you thinking? he almost asked.
I’m thinking about something Haslam said, Donaghue would not have told him. I’m thinking about a conversation Haslam and I agreed never took place.
‘As I’ll ever be.’
The 737 bumped gently on the runway, the reverse thrust thundering, then taxied to the terminal. The flight-deck door opened and the pilot and copilot stepped out and stood with the cabin crew at the front of the plane. The fuselage door to the terminal opened. In the passenger bridge on the other side Jordan saw the line of officials.
‘Okay, Jack. Let’s do it.’
Donaghue stood and straightened his suit, Pearson slightly behind him and Jordan at his shoulder. The rest of the passengers were still seated, all watching. He passed along the line of crew members and shook each of their hands.
‘Give it to ’em today, Jack.’ The voice was from the back of the plane.
‘Good luck, Mr President.’ Another.
Abruptly the passengers rose and began to clap. Donaghue turned and waved his thanks at them, then left the plane and stepped through the jet bridge and into the terminal, everyone wanting to shake his hand this morning, everyone wanting to wish him luck. Some addressing him as Jack, others as Senator. More than the occasional person calling him Mr President.
The doors of the Lincoln were open. Brettlaw stepped forward and Donaghue shook hands with him, embraced him.
‘Good to see you.’
‘You too, old friend.’
Eleven thirty-three.
The Lincoln left National.
Hendricks checked his watch. Not much traffic today, therefore the target on time.
Even though the road out of the underpass was in front of him and the glistening white of Capitol Hill was behind and to his left, he saw it differently, as if he was the driver of the Lincoln, as if he was the man delivering the target to the killing zone.
Right out of National and on to George Washington Parkway – he ran through the route again. Off the Parkway and across 14th Street Bridge. Fork right at the end into the series of underpasses dissecting DC, the cars which would funnel the Lincoln into the correct lane, and into the correct position in the killing zone, already closing. First underpass then second, right at the first exit but still underground, then right again at the second exit, the carriageway of this section single-lane, still climbing and curving left, then straightening into the sunlight. Sixty yards from the underpass to the traffic lights at First. White multistorey housing the National Association of Letter Carriers on the right, and side road joining the underpass road from behind the multistorey, so that at the junction with First the road was two-lane. Six-foot-wide central reservation of grass and trees to the left and wire fence down the middle, and the road on the other side leading only to an underground car park. Grey multistorey of the Federal Home Loan Bank beyond the road. Grass and more traffic lights in front and leading to the Hill.
Everything quiet, little traffic and hardly any pedestrians. Everything perfect.
Eleven thirty-four.
The Lincoln eased on to George Washington Memorial Parkway.
Thirty-five.
The Lincoln pulled right, off the Parkway and across 14th Street Bridge, the grey-blue of the Potomac below them and the white of DC suddenly in front. The white always dazzling, but this morning almost blinding. Fork at end of bridge, Route N1 goes left and Route 395 right.
The Lincoln swung right on to 395.
Eleven thirty-seven.
First exit, to Maine Avenue. First underpass coming up. The dark blue Chevrolet fell in behind them then drew to the outside lane, but not overtaking.
Thirty-eight.
First underpass. Two-lane. Short. Out of the underpass in fifteen seconds.
The pale Chrysler sedan eased in front of them, the Chevrolet behind them still in the outer lane and preventing them from overtaking.
Thirty-nine.
Hendricks saw the truck edge from the feeder road at the side of the Letter Carriers building, the engine clattering and the smoke billowing from its exhaust. The lights at First were on green. The truck crossed to the left lane, jerked apparently haphazardly towards the lights, and shuddered to a halt at them.
Eleven-forty.
Ford replacing the Chrysler and Oldsmobile replacing the Chevrolet. Yellow sedan three hundred yards in front.
Donaghue reached into his jacket pocket and glanced again at the speech, read again the quote he had included at the request of his wife. The quote after which he would pause, after which he would look down reflectively then look up again, after which he would declare he was running for the White House.
In the long history of the world
few generations have been granted
the role of defending freedom
in its hour of maximum danger.
I do not shirk from this responsibility
I welcome it.
Except that in his mind he had rewritten it slightly:
In the long history of the world
few generations have been granted
the role of defending freedom.
In the hour of maximum danger
I do not shirk from this responsibility.
I welcome it.
Two
