Congressman Blaine pushed his way through the throng of TV reporters shouting questions and pointing microphones. He had just given a speech on the steps of Capitol Hill, stressing that now was not the time for party politics, now was the time for bipartisan unity, and urging Congress to act responsibly. He had stopped just short of asking Republicans to vote for the clean veterans aid bill, but the message was clear. Everyone knew what he meant.
It was a bombshell.
“Mr. Speaker! Mr. Speaker!” the TV reporters shouted.
He might not have heard them. He elbowed his way through them, gently at first, then more assertively. He should have had aides clearing the way for him, but he hadn’t made any preparations, hadn’t told anybody what he was doing. He had just shown up on the top steps of Capitol Hill and started speaking. And within minutes he had every camera in the vicinity aimed at him, with more members of the media arriving every minute.
It was a politician’s dream, the type of publicity impossible to generate, except in this fashion, by committing political suicide.
Congressman Blaine walked down the steps on automatic pilot. He’d held himself together for the TV cameras, but as he plowed his way through the crowd, he was on the brink of tears. Still he held them back, his public persona hardwired into his system.
He had just cleared the crowd when his cell phone rang. He nearly jumped out of his skin. The phone was set very loud to make sure he heard it. He fished it out of his jacket pocket. “Hello?”
There was no one there.
He said, “Hello?” again, feeling like a fool, but terrified he might hang up on the kidnappers.
Finally he gave up and stuck the phone back in his pocket.
He turned a corner, ran into the girl, and knocked her down. He’d been preoccupied with the phone, hadn’t realized she was there. Muttering apologies, he stooped to help her up.
Millie missed the grab. She knew where the phone was from watching him answer her call, and she’d done the pickpocket’s move perfectly, bumping him in the stomach so he wouldn’t feel the hand in his jacket pocket, but the phone slipped through her fingers. The poor man was sweating from his ordeal, and the phone was wet from his perspiration.
She had to go double-dipping, a no-no in the trade. The danger escalates exponentially on the second try. A pro would leave the mark and find fresh game. Millie didn’t have that option. She slipped and fell into him, got her hand inside his jacket, tugged the cell phone out.
It wasn’t the perfect move. He grabbed for his lapel as if he’d felt his jacket ripping. He had to let go of Millie to do it, and she slid to the ground, curling her hands underneath her and landing on her forearms.
She flicked the back off the cell phone, held it between two fingers, and grabbed the chip she’d been palming with her forefinger and her thumb. In her head she counted the seconds as she clicked the chip in place and slid the back on.
She came to her feet, apologizing for bumping into him, thanking him for helping her up, and straightening his jacket, a perfectly natural thing to do since she’d certainly mussed his clothing.
Moments later she was hurrying off to whatever important appointment she’d been preoccupied with when she bumped into him.
As soon as she was out of sight, Millie whipped out her own cell phone and called Kevin.
“Target is live.”