Under Siege by Stephen Coonts Read Free Book Online

you would never see half potted at a prizefight with a floozie on his arm. He nodded right and left and settled into his seat at the head of the conference table. His shirtsleeves were rolled up and his tie was loosened, as usual. Why did he wear a tie, anyway? He got right to business.
    “This Colombian doper-where is he going for trial? Ed?” Yangelia looked over his glasses, which he habitually kept perched precariously on the end of his nose.
    The national editor said, “We’re getting all kinds of rumblings. Senator Cherry doesn’t want him tried in Florida and is throwing his weight around. Justice isn’t saying ing tilde . The governor of Florida is having a fit. Nothing from the White House, although we hear the attorney general went over there about an hour ago.”
    “Any announcements cominiell
    “Maybe later today. Nothing for sure.”
    “What’s your lead right now?”
    “Cherry and the governor.”
    The editor nodded. He perused the slug sheet. “Another airliner bombing in Colombia?”
    “Yes,” the foreign editor told him. “Seventy-six people dead, five of them Americans. The Medellin cartel is taking credit. Retaliation for the extradition of Aldana. It’s the fifth or sixth one they’ve blown up in the last couple of years. They also blew up a bank yesterday and killed another judge. We’ve got some pictures.”
    The paper’s pollster spoke. “We’ve got a poll conducted by a newspaper in Miami coming in over the wires. Seventythree percent of those polled don’t want Aldana tried in south Florida.”
    “Can we get a poll here in Washington?” Yangella asked him.
    “Take some time.”
    The conversation moved to international affairs; political events in Germany, Moscow, and Budapest, and a flood in Bangladesh. They spent a minute discussing the efforts to rescue a child trapped in an abandoned well in Texas, a story that the TV networks were feasting on. Fortyfive seconds were devoted to a new study on the reasons high schools gave diplomas to functional illiterates.
    The managing editor didn’t say a word or ask a question about Jack Yocke’s murder stories. A murder is a murder is a murder, Yocke told himself Unless you have the good fortune to be spectacularly butchered by a beautiful young woman from a filthy rich or politically prominent family, your demise is not going to make the front page of The Washington Post. Joseph Yangella was clearing his throat to announce his decisions when the door opened and a woman from national stuck her head in.
    “News conference at Justice in fortyfive minutes. Rumor has it Cohen will announce that Aldana is being brought back to Washington for arraignment and trial.”
    Yangella nodded. The tousled head withdrew and the door closed softly.
    “All right then,” Yangella announced. “On the front page we’ll go with the doper to Washington.” He put a check mark beside each story as he announced it. “The poll in Miami, airliner bombing and violence in Colombia, flooding tilde in Bangladesh, the kid in the well, illiterate graduates. Photos of the airliner bombing and the rescue team in Texas. Let’s do it.”
    Everyone rose and strode purposefully for the door.
    After dinner that evening Henry Charon bought copies of the Post and the Washington Times and took them to his room. It was after nine p.m. when he finished the papers. The assassin stood at the window a moment, looking at the lights of the city. He stretched, relieved himself in the bathroom, and put on a sweater and warm coat. The paper said the temperature might drop to forty tonight. He made sure the room door locked behind him on his way out.

CHAPTERTHREE
    Jack Yocke and his date could hear the voices through the door. When he knocked the door was immediately opened by a black-haired, gawky colt of a girl, about twelve years old or so. She smiled, flashing her braces, as she stood aside to allow them to pass.
    “Hi,” said Jack.
    “Hi. I’m Amy. My folks are here