foolish when you are mistaken.”
She looked up at me again, as if to see how I was swallowing the lie. Not well, she realised. “Please excuse me,” she said. “It is time for lunch and we must prepare our little talk for afterwards, no?”
Before I could stop her, she’d hurried inside, letting the partly glazed door slam behind her. Romundstad also watched her go and he turned and raised an eyebrow at me, as though I was the one who’d upset her.
“Well now,” I muttered to myself, “what the hell was that all about?”
***
The Major was right about the Manor’s library. There was indeed all the information we could wish for on the subject of assassinations – failed and successful. I decided to go for the attempt on US President Ronald Reagan by John Hinkley Jr in March 1981.
Not only was it well documented in the library’s files, but I felt it gave me plenty to talk about on the subject of his close protection team – both good and bad. After all, Reagan’s secret service bodyguards had missed the fact that his would-be assassin had been hanging around all day outside the Washington Hilton Hotel looking highly suspicious.
On the plus side, when the attack did happen they’d reacted textbook fast. Three of them, including Reagan’s Press Secretary, had even managed to get themselves shot in the process.
The members of the team who were still left standing had bounced on Hinkley, while another had thrown their injured principal into his limo and hustled him away from the scene.
What I didn’t add, because it wasn’t included in the Manor’s information, was that if Hinkley had chosen a revolver with a longer barrel and a higher muzzle velocity than the Rohm R6-14 he’d been using, the explosive-head Devastator rounds he’d loaded might just have had the effect their name implied. Scratch another US president.
“So, Miss Fox, what conclusions do you draw from this?” Gilby asked when I’d finally ground to a halt.
“That Reagan’s close protection team were good in a crisis, but not so hot at planning and prevention,” I said. “They should never have let it happen in the first place. But, it does make Reagan unique – he’s the only serving US president to date who’s survived actually being shot by an assassin.”
He smiled. “Excellent,” he said, the praise pleasing me more than it should have done. “Who’s next?”
I regained my seat next to one of the tall windows that looked out over the rear of the house. Elsa stood up, gathering her file of papers, and walked to the front of the classroom. The students were all sitting at tables, but the instructors, including Gilby, had lined themselves up along the back wall.
They had listened to all the presentations so far, mine included, with poorly disguised boredom. I got the impression that this was one of Gilby’s pet ideas as far as the curriculum went and nobody else could see the value of it.
Elsa was the last to go. She reached the desk at the front and put her papers down neatly. “Good afternoon,” she said, sombre. “We have heard already about many famous events, but I would like to speak about one that is not in your library records. It is more recent, and not so well known. My subject is the abduction of a young girl called Heidi Krauss.”
The name meant nothing to me, but it was instantly apparent that it did to Gilby and his men. It was as though someone had passed an electrical current through the wall behind them. Every one of them jerked upright and Gilby even took a step forwards, as though he was going to try and prevent Elsa from speaking.
The German woman looked up. “Is there a problem, Major?” she asked, without inflection.
The rest of us followed the exchange like the crowd at a top-class tennis match, heads following each volley from one end of the room to the other. Gilby must have realised almost immediately that to
She looked up at me again, as if to see how I was swallowing the lie. Not well, she realised. “Please excuse me,” she said. “It is time for lunch and we must prepare our little talk for afterwards, no?”
Before I could stop her, she’d hurried inside, letting the partly glazed door slam behind her. Romundstad also watched her go and he turned and raised an eyebrow at me, as though I was the one who’d upset her.
“Well now,” I muttered to myself, “what the hell was that all about?”
***
The Major was right about the Manor’s library. There was indeed all the information we could wish for on the subject of assassinations – failed and successful. I decided to go for the attempt on US President Ronald Reagan by John Hinkley Jr in March 1981.
Not only was it well documented in the library’s files, but I felt it gave me plenty to talk about on the subject of his close protection team – both good and bad. After all, Reagan’s secret service bodyguards had missed the fact that his would-be assassin had been hanging around all day outside the Washington Hilton Hotel looking highly suspicious.
On the plus side, when the attack did happen they’d reacted textbook fast. Three of them, including Reagan’s Press Secretary, had even managed to get themselves shot in the process.
The members of the team who were still left standing had bounced on Hinkley, while another had thrown their injured principal into his limo and hustled him away from the scene.
What I didn’t add, because it wasn’t included in the Manor’s information, was that if Hinkley had chosen a revolver with a longer barrel and a higher muzzle velocity than the Rohm R6-14 he’d been using, the explosive-head Devastator rounds he’d loaded might just have had the effect their name implied. Scratch another US president.
“So, Miss Fox, what conclusions do you draw from this?” Gilby asked when I’d finally ground to a halt.
“That Reagan’s close protection team were good in a crisis, but not so hot at planning and prevention,” I said. “They should never have let it happen in the first place. But, it does make Reagan unique – he’s the only serving US president to date who’s survived actually being shot by an assassin.”
He smiled. “Excellent,” he said, the praise pleasing me more than it should have done. “Who’s next?”
I regained my seat next to one of the tall windows that looked out over the rear of the house. Elsa stood up, gathering her file of papers, and walked to the front of the classroom. The students were all sitting at tables, but the instructors, including Gilby, had lined themselves up along the back wall.
They had listened to all the presentations so far, mine included, with poorly disguised boredom. I got the impression that this was one of Gilby’s pet ideas as far as the curriculum went and nobody else could see the value of it.
Elsa was the last to go. She reached the desk at the front and put her papers down neatly. “Good afternoon,” she said, sombre. “We have heard already about many famous events, but I would like to speak about one that is not in your library records. It is more recent, and not so well known. My subject is the abduction of a young girl called Heidi Krauss.”
The name meant nothing to me, but it was instantly apparent that it did to Gilby and his men. It was as though someone had passed an electrical current through the wall behind them. Every one of them jerked upright and Gilby even took a step forwards, as though he was going to try and prevent Elsa from speaking.
The German woman looked up. “Is there a problem, Major?” she asked, without inflection.
The rest of us followed the exchange like the crowd at a top-class tennis match, heads following each volley from one end of the room to the other. Gilby must have realised almost immediately that to
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