42
PAUL PICKED UP THE PHONE ON THE SEAT AND DIALED THE LOCAL DEA chief’s number. The call was forwarded to the man’s home. Paul ignored the background noise—television newscast, kids yelling.
“Thad, Paul Masterson. I’m in New Orleans for a quick visit.”
“Yeah, Paul. What can I do for you?”
“I just cracked the house, where I walked straight through two police patrols and one of the two best men you said you had. He’s licking his wounds about now.”
“What do you want me to do about it?”
“What? Well, Thad, if a crippled, one-eyed man and a red-headed Watusi can get in, what do you think you should do about it now?”
“Paul, I’m sorry about that, but Greer’s in charge. I gave him my two best agents, but he’s deploying them.”
“Listen, Thad. If you want to cover your ass on this, I mean if you want a career after this weekend, I’ll tell you what you should do.”
“Listen, Paul—”
“You listen, Thad. Turn off the fucking television or go into a quiet room and get on the horn to the chief of police and the Coast Guard. Here’s what I want.”
“But—”
“Butt’s an ass, Thad. I’ve told you what’s wrong. You don’t want to see what’ll happen to your career if anything happens on your watch. Anything happens to Laura and the kids, I’ll bury you so deep you’ll have to dig a hole to China to see stars.”
“Okay, Paul, tell me what you want.”
By the time Paul and Rainey Lee stepped from the car and started walking on the dock near the Shadowfax, cars filled with policemen and serious men in suits were converging on the yacht basin.
Within thirty minutes half of the New Orleans SWAT team was at three locations in the city. Sharpshooters were being briefed on the grass beside the yacht club. Others were near Laura’s house and setting up in a grassy field across from Tulane University.
The Coast Guard had furnished their best diver, who was searching the piers around the Shadowfax for bombs. The bomb squad had dogs checking the dock lockers, the vessel’s deck and interior. A Hatteras was pressed into service and moored within sight of the boat where snipers would be positioned. The dockmaster’s people were towing away the other vessels on the nearby piers to rob any opposing force of cover. Paul spent an hour giving orders and making certain the security was as close to impenetrable as possible. He was beginning to feel a lot better about the situation.
Thorne was completely amazed. All he had to do, it turned out, was join a work in progress. Anyone coming in from outside had to pass through several police roadblocks. There were uniformed patrolmen, deputies, and highway patrolmen in evidence.
By eight-thirty it had started- to drizzle a little, as if the way was being prepared for the impending storm that was moving over the Louisiana coastline. The tropical storm had already weakened as it neared landfall south of New Orleans. Although there was little chance of serious wind damage to secured vessels, the Coast Guard had posted high-wind warning flags at the mouth of the harbor. There was a steady stream of boat owners who were checking lines and securing their vessels in preparation for the weather.
A forty-foot Coast Guard cabin cruiser sat like a mother hen, one hundred feet away from the Shadowfax, in effect guarding the channel. A group of seamen stood on her stern. One sailor had an M-16 on his shoulder and a pair of binoculars in his hands. The others were watching the diver preparing to drop into the water from the pier.
Paul and Rainey watched as the diver slipped the mask into place and slid into the dark-brown water. The flashlight came to life, and its white glow began moving down the length of the boat’s hull.
Once Paul was certain the boat would be as safe as an open location could be, that it would take a platoon of fully armed Martin Fletchers to pose a serious threat to those aboard, he prepared to leave for the airport. He was certain the security could be no better were the President on board.