Term Limits

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TERM LIMITS

by

Vince Flynn

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POCKET BOOKS

New York London Toronto Sydney Tokyo Singapore

To Tom Clancy, Robert Ludlum, Leon Uris, J.R.R. Tolkien, and Ernest Hemingway, for inspiring me to live my dreams.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster Inc. 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY

10020

Copyright (c) 1997 by Vince Flynn

Published by arrangement with Cloak & Dagger Press, Inc. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Cloak & Dagger

Press, Inc 1836 Wordsworth Avenue, St. Paul, MN 55116

ISBN: 0-671-02317-9

First Pocket Books hardcover printing June 1998

10987654321

POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster Inc. Printed in the U.S.A.

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… Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just Powers from the

Consent of the Governed, that whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these Ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new

Government… it is their Right, it is their Duty, to throw off such Government, and to provide new Guards for their future Security.

— THOMAS JEFFERSON,

The Declaration of Independence

THE OLD WOOD CABIN SAT ALONE, SURROUNDED BY TREES AND

DARKNESS. The shades were drawn, and a dog lay motionless on the front porch. A

thin stream of smoke flowed out of the chimney and headed’ west, across the rural

Maryland countryside toward Washington, D.C. Inside, a man sat silently in front of the fireplace, shoving stacks of paper into the hot flames. The papers were the product of months of tedious and meticulous work. Each sheet represented hour upon hour of surveillance notes, in-depth subject profiles, and maps of neighborhoods throughout the

D.C. metropolitan area. He knew when the police patrolled, when the newspapers were delivered, who jogged and at what time, and most importantly, where his targets slept and what time they awoke. He and his men had stalked them for months, watching and waiting, patiently discerning which part of their daily routine could be exploited-and when they would be most vulnerable. His strong hands reached for the fire and stopped short. Letting them hang near the flames, he flexed them straight, then pulled them into tight fists. The men he had been stalking had sent him to some of the most obscure places on the face of the planet to kill people who were deemed a threat to the national security of the United States of America. He had lost track of the number of people he had killed in the service of his country. He had not intentionally blocked the tally from his mind, it was just something he had never bothered to calculate.

Whatever the number was, he held no regrets for the men he had killed.

They were honorless, evil psychopaths-killers of innocent civilians.

The solitary figure sitting in front of the fire was an assassin of assassins, an exporter of death, trained and funded by the United States government. His short blond hair glowed as he stared deeper and deeper into the flames, the crisp fire eventually turning into a hypnotic blur.

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Tomorrow he would kill for the first time on American soil. The times, places, and targets had all been chosen. In less than twenty-four hours the course of American politics would be changed forever.

The sun rose over Washington, D.C marking the start of what would be a long and busy day. With the President’s annual budget twenty-four hours away from a full House vote, the town was in a frenzy.

Congressmen, Senators, bureaucrats, and lobbyists were making a last-minute push to amend or strike certain elements of the budget.

The count was too close to call, and the leaders of both parties were exerting great pressure on their members to vote along partisan lines.

No one was exerting more pressure than Stu Garret, the President’s chief of staff. It was nearing 9 A.M and Garret was ready to explode.

He was standing in the Blue Room of the White House watching the President read

“Humpty-Dumpty” to a group of kindergartners, and his anger was increasing by the second.

Garret had told the President that the photo op with the kids was out of the question, but the White House press secretary, Ann Moncur, had convinced the President otherwise. It was rare for Garret to lose to anyone; even on the smallest point. But

Moncur had sold the President on the idea that, in the throes of a cutthroat budget battle, it would be good PR for him to look as if he were above the dirty political horse-trading of Washington. Garret had been working around the clock for the last month trying to get the votes needed to pass the budget.

If the budget was defeated, their chances for reelection would be severely hampered.

The count would be close, but there was a plan to make a last-minute charge. The only problem was that Garret needed the President back in his office making phone calls, not sitting in the Blue Room reading nursery rhymes. As was typical of everything at the

White House, the event had started late and was now running over its original half-hour slot.

Garret looked down at his watch for the tenth time in the last five minutes and decided enough was enough. Looking to his left, he glared at Ann Moncur, who was standing several feet away. Garret slid between the wall and several other White House staffers and worked his way toward Moncur. When he reached her, he pulled her back and cupped his hand over her ear. “This is the dumbest stunt you’ve ever pulled. If the budget gets torpedoed tomorrow, you’re history. This circus has gone fifteen minutes over schedule. I’m going to the Oval Office, and if he isn’t there in five minutes, I’m going to come back in here and personally throw your ass out on the street.” Moncur strained to smile and look relaxed. She glanced around the room and noticed that some of the other staffers and several members of the press were watching. She nodded her head

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several times and was relieved when Garret stepped away and headed for the door. For obvious reasons, Moncur didn’t care for the older, crass chief of staff. Simply put, he was a pain in the ass to work for.

Michael O’Rourke walked purposefully down the hallway of the Cannon House

Office Building. It was just after 9 A.M and the building was crowded with people.

O’Rourke avoided making eye contact with anyone for fear of being stopped. He was not in a good mood. O’Rourke didn’t like Washington; in fact, it was safe to say he hated

Washington.

Midway down the hall, he turned into an office and closed the door behind him.

Inside were five men wearing dark suits and drinking coffee. O’Rourke shot his secretary a quick glance, but before she could respond, all five men closed in on him.

“Congressman O’Rourke, could I please have a moment of your time? I just need five minutes,” pleaded the man closest to the door. A short, pudgy man pushed his way to the front.

“Congressman, I would like to speak to you about how the farmers in your district will be affected if you don’t vote for the President’s budget.”

The thirty-two-year-old freshman Congressman held up his hands.

“Gentlemen, you’re wasting your time. I’ve already made up my mind, and I will not be voting for the President’s budget. Now if you will kindly vacate my office, I have work to do.” The group started to protest, but O’Rourke opened the door and waved them into the hallway.

All five men stumbled to grab their briefcases and then headed off dejectedly, in search of another Congressman to cajole. The portly lobbyist hung back and tried to give it another shot. “Congressman, I’ve talked to my people in your district, and they’ve told me you have a lot of farmers waiting for the crop-failure money the President has in his budget.” The lobbyist waited for a reaction from O’Rourke but got none. “If this budget doesn’t pass, I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes come next election.” O’Rourke looked at the man and pointed toward the door with his thumb. “I have work to do.” With the vote so close the lobbyist was not willing to give up easily. “Mr. O’Rourke, if you vote no on the President’s budget, the American Farmers Association will be left with no other choice than to support your opponent next year.” O’Rourke shook his head and said, “Nice try, but I’m not running for a second term.”

Waving good-bye, the young Congressman grabbed the door and closed it in the lobbyist’s face. O’Rourke turned to face his secretary, Susan Chambers. Susan smiled and said, “I’m sorry, Michael. I told them you had a full calendar, but they insisted on waiting around to see if you would fit them in.”

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“No apologies needed, Susan.” Michael left the main reception area and walked into his office. He set his briefcase on the chair beside his desk and picked up a stack of pink messages. Yelling toward the door, he asked, “Has Tim come in yet?”

“No.”

“Has he called?”

“Yes. He said that since there isn’t a snowball’s chance in hell of the President taking the funding for the Rural Electrification Administration out of the budget, he’s going to get some errands done and be in around one.” Tim O’Rourke was Michael’s younger brother by two years and his chief of staff. “I’m glad everyone is so positive around here.”

Susan stood up from behind her desk and walked to the doorway of O’Rourke’s office.

“Michael, we’re only being realists. I admire that you’re trying to do what’s right, but the problem is, guys like you don’t win in Washington.”

“Well, thank you for your vote of confidence, Susan.” Susan looked up into

O’Rourke’s bloodshot eyes. “Michael, were you out again last night?” O’Rourke nodded his head yes. “This bachelor life is going to kill you. Why don’t you make an honest woman out of that adorable girlfriend of yours?” O’Rourke had been hearing it from everyone lately, but he was in no position to get married. Maybe in another year … after he got out of Washington. He looked down and sighed, “Susan, I’m Irish, we tend to get married late in life. Besides, I’m not so sure she’ll have

“That’s a lie and you know it. She adores you. Take it from a woman: I’ve seen the way she looks at you with those big brown eyes. You’re the one, so don’t screw it up.

There aren’t too many like her out there.” Chambers slapped him in the stomach. “I hope being crowned the most eligible bachelor in Washington hasn’t gone to your head!”

O’Rourke frowned and shook his head. “Very funny, Susan.”

Chambers turned and walked away, laughing. “I’m glad you’re getting such a kick out of this, Susan. Hold all of my calls. I have an appointment at noon, and until then I don’t want to be disturbed.”

“What if your grandfather or Liz calls?”

“No one, I don’t want to be disturbed.”

O’Rourke shut the door and sat down behind his desk.

WHEN THE PRESIDENT ENTERED HIS OFFICE, HE FOUND GARRET AND

HIS budget director, Mark Dickson, sitting on a couch by the fireplace, poring over the prospective vote count, trying to figure out whom they could sway to their side. Stevens knew his chief of staff was in a bad mood, and he did not have the energy for an

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argument. So he decided to defuse the situation and take orders. As he walked over to them, he took off his jacket, threw it on the other couch, and clapped his hands together.

“All right, Stu, I’m all yours for the rest of the day. Just tell me what you want me to do.” Garret looked up and motioned for his boss to take a seat. Garret and Dickson had been in the office since 6 AM putting together a final list of possible holdouts. With one day to go, they had secured 209 votes. The opposition had 216 votes, and ten

Congressman were still undecided. Garret had a piece of paper in front of him with two headings: UNDECIDED and POSSIBLE DEFECTORS. Ten names were under the undecided heading, and six under the possible-defectors heading. Both columns had shrunk considerably in the past week as the vote approached. “All right, here’s the current situation, Jim.” No one but Stu Garret ever called the President by his first name. “We need to put this thing to bed today. Basset and Koslowski are up on the Hill playing good cop-bad cop with the fence-sitters. We’re going to try and start a stampede by noon.” Tom

Basset was the Speaker of the House, and Jack Koslowski was the chairman of the House

Appropriations Committee.

“Are we in a position to do that?” the President asked. Garret leaned back in his chair, placed his hands behind his neck, and smiled. Tom Basset has a meeting with

Congressman Moore at < eleven, and when that meeting is over, Frank Moore is going to make an announcement that he’s backing the budget.”

“How much is it going to cost us?” asked Dickson.

“Only about ten million.”

“You guys are going to bag Frank Moore for ten million? That’s nothing more than pocket change to Frank.” The President shook his head. “How are you going to get him to settle for so little?”

Garret’s smile emanated confidence. “We recruited some outside help to get him to see things our way.”

“What kind of help?” Garret paused for a long moment and replied flatly, “Arthur

Higgins arranged to have some photos taken of the Congressman and a certain young woman.” Arthur Higgins. There was no more mysterious name in all of Washington.

Stevens seriously wondered whether it was in his best interest to know any details. Arthur

Higgins was an ominous and legendary figure in the power circles of Washington and many Of the world’s other capitals. For forty years Higgins had run the most secretive branch of the CIA. Officially he never existed nor did his department. Higgins had been the author and controller of the Agency’s most delicate and dangerous covert operations since the height of the cold war. Several years earlier he had been forced out of the CIA

in a heated power struggle. What he had been doing with his time and talents since was something that was whispered about behind closed doors. Stevens looked up from the paper and said, “You’re going to blackmail Frank Moore?” Garret smiled and said, “Essentially.”

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“I don’t want to know the details, do I?”

“No.” Garret shook his head.

“Just trust me when I say Moore will see no other choice than to vote our way.”

Stevens nodded solemnly and replied, “Next time, I would prefer it if you would let me know about these things before they’re set in motion.”

“Understood.” After a brief silence Garret turned their attention back to the task at hand. “Jim, I need to get you working on a couple of these possible defectorsи Our staffers have been feeling these guys out, and I think that two of the six will give us their vote if you promise not to back their opponent in the next election. Out of the ten undecideds and the six possible defectors, we’re going to have to get at least nine or the budget is dead, and if that happens, we may as well kiss next year’s election good-bye.”

“What about any possible defections from our side?” the President asked. Garret leaned forward. “Don’t worry about that. If one of those little pricks steps out of line, Koslowski will cut every penny of Federal money from their district. We’re not going to have any traitorsи” Besides being chairman of the House Appropriations Committee, Jack

Koslowski was the party’s chief neck-breaker on the Hill. He was known and feared by all as one of the roughest players in D.C. “What I need from you this morning are some real nice down-home phone calls to a couple of these rookie Congressman, telling them how much their vote would mean to you and the country.

Maybe even invite them over here for lunch.” The request was met with a grimace by the President, but Garret continued, “Jim, I know you don’t like mixing with the common folk, but if you don’t get a couple of these boys to switch over to our side, you’re going to have to do an awful lot of ass-kissing come election time.” Garret paused, giving the

President time to reflect on unpleasant memories of the campaign trail. “If everything goes well with Moore, which I’m sure it will, I want to schedule a press conference at noon to try and spook the rest of these guys into settlingи At the press conference I want you to stand up and complain about congressional gridlock. Tell them that you can’t start fixing this nation if they don’t pass your budget. You know the routine.

I wrote a speech for you last night, and when we’re done with the phone calls, I want to run through it with you.” Garret hadn’t actually written the speech. One of his staffers had, but Garret was not one to give credit to others. “How do you want him to respond if they start asking about us buying votes?” asked Dickson. “Flat out deny it.

Tell them that there are several Congressman who feel very strongly about getting certain kinds of economic relief to their districts, which are in dire need of help. Deny it, deny it, deny it! This thing will all be over in a couple of days, and then the press will move on to something else. If they start to lay into you about any frivolous parts of the bill, just squirm your way out of it, and then look at your watch and end the press conference. Tell them you have to meet some diplomats from one of the former Soviet

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republics.” Garret quickly jotted down a note to himself. “By the time you go on, I’ll have an excuse ready.” The President nodded his head in a positive manner. He was a professional politician, and Garret was one of the best handlers in the business. He trusted

Garret completely when it came to manipulating public opinion.

Garret stabbed his index finger at the list of Congressman. “All right, let’s stay focused on the game. I don’t give a shit what the press thinks, just so long as we get this budget passed.” Garret picked up a pen and circled three names under the possible-defectors heading. “Now, Jim, these three boys are as big hicks as they come.

They’re a couple of Mr. Smith Goes to Washington types. Just like Jimmy Stewart in the movie. All three are freshmen and are full of ideals. If you call them up and beat the commander-in-chief drum, I think we can get them to jump sides. Give them the old

‘Rome wasn’t built in a day, we can’t save the nation overnight’ speech.” The President nodded his head, signaling a full understanding of the performance needed. “These next two guys are the ones I was telling you about. If we promise not to back their opponents in the next election, they’ll give us their votes. All they want is a personal guarantee from you и . . they said they don’t trust my word.” Garret let out a loud laugh. “Can you imagine that?” The President and Dickson joined in with smiles and a couple of chuckles.

Garret pressed on. “Now this last rep is a real nut-bag, and I’m not so sure she’ll play ball. Koslowski wanted her name on the list.

She’s from one of his neighboring districts in Chicago. She’s a black freshman and she scares the shit out of me. She’s a bona fide race-baiter. She’ll call anyone a racist, and I

mean anyone. She’d call the pope a racist if she had the chance. I think in exchange for her vote she’s going to want to be invited to several high-profile events and be put on some of the more powerful committees. At which point she will stand up and call our biggest financial backers racists and embarrass the shit out of them. I would prefer to avoid having to deal with her if at all possible.” The President massaged his fingers.

“Why is she on the list?”

“I told you, Jack put her on there just in case we need a vote at the last minute.

We’re not going to deal with her unless we absolutely have to. Now let’s get started with the three rookies.” The first name at the top of the list was Michael O’Rourke. The

President picked up his pen and stabbed the tip at O’Rourke’s name. “Michael O’Rourke -

- where have I heard that name before?” Garret looked over at his boss and shook his head. “I have no idea. He’s a freshman independent from Minnesota.”

Garret glanced down at his notes. “He was on Senator Olson’s staff before he was elected. He graduated from the University of Minnesota where he played hockey. After college he went into the Marine Corps and fought in the Gulf War. It says here he was leading a squad of Recon Marines behind enemy lines during the air war conducting target assessment when they saw a coalition pilot shot down. He and his men rushed to

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the pilot’s aid and held off an entire company of Iraqi soldiers until the cavalry showed up. He was awarded the Silver Star.”

The President continued to stare at the name and mumbled to himself, “I know I’ve heard that name before.” Mark Dickson interjected, “Sir, you may have read about him in the papers. He’s recently been crowned the most eligible bachelor in Washington by the social columnists.”

Stevens stabbed his pen down on the piece of paper several times.

“You’re right. That is where I’ve heard about him. I caught the secretaries swooning over his picture several weeks ago. Very handsome young man. We could probably use that to our advantage. What else do we know about him?” Garret looked through some notes that an assistant had made for him. “He’s thirty-two-years-old and from Grand

Rapids.

His family is big in the timber business.” Garret raised his eyebrows when he looked at the estimated value of the O’Rourke Timber Company.

“They’ve got some serious money. At any rate, he says he won’t vote for your budget unless all of the funding for the Rural Electrification Administration is cut.”

The President let out a loud laugh and asked, “That’s the only thing he doesn’t like about it?”

“No.” Garret shook his head. “He says the whole thing sucks, but he’s willing to sign on to it if, and only if, you cut the funding for the REA.” The President frowned at the word sucks.

“That’s ridiculous. We’d lose half the votes we already have, and we wouldn’t gain more than a handful.”

“Exactly.”

“Well, let’s call him and find out just how serious he is when he’s got the President of the United States breathing down his neck.” Stevens pressed a button on his phone console. “Betty, would you please get Congressman O’Rourke on the line for me?”

“Yes, sir.” Stevens looked up from the phone. “What else can you tell me about him?”

“Not much. He’s an unknown. I’m banking on the fact that once he hears your voice, he’ll be in such awe that he’ll roll over like a good-old, small-town boy.”

O’Rourke was deep in thought when Susan’s voice came over the intercom. He finished the sentence he was working on and pressed the intercom button. “Yes, Susan, what is it?”

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“Michael, the President is holding on line one.”

“Very funny, Susan. I told you I didn’t want to be bothered. Please, tell the President

I’m a little busy at the moment. I’ll try to get back to him after lunch.”

“Michael, I’m not kidding. The President is holding on line one.”

O’Rourke laughed to himself: “Susan, are you that bored?”

“I’m serious, he’s on line one.” O’Rourke frowned at the blinking light and pressed it.

“Hello, this is Congressman O’Rourke.” The President was sitting behind his desk, and

Stu Garret and Mark Dickson were listening in on the call from separate phones on the other side of the room. Upon hearing O’Rourke’s voice, the President enthusiastically said, “Hello, Congressman O’Rourke?” Michael leaned forward in his chair when he heard the President’s familiar voice and said, “Yes, this is he.”

“This is the President. How are you doing this morning?”

“Just fine, sir, and how are you?” O’Rourke closed his eyes and wished Susan would have listened to him. “Well, I would be doing a whole lot better if I could get some of you people over there to back me on this budget.”

“Yes, I’d imagine you would, sir.” O’Rourke’s monotone response was followed by a brief silence. “You know, Congressman, that’s a beautiful part of the country you’re from.

One of my roommates at Dartmouth had a little cabin up near Grand Rapids. I spent a week there one summer and had a fantastic time.

That is, with the exception of those darn mosquitoes. They could pick you up and carry you off during the middle of the night if you weren’t careful.”

“Yes, they’re pretty bad at times.” O’Rourke had yet to show an ounce of emotion in his voice. The President pressed on, speaking as if he and O’Rourke had been friends for years. “Well, Michael, the reason I’m calling is to tell you that I really need your vote tomorrow.

And before you tell me yes or no, I want to talk to you about a couple of things. “I’ve been doing this for over twenty-five years now, and I remember when I was a freshman representative. I came here filled with piss and vinegar. I was going to change this place

… I was going to make a difference. Well, I quickly realized that if I didn’t learn to take the good with the bad, I was never going to get anything done.

I’ve been there, Michael. I know what you’re going through. “I remember the first

Presidential budget I had to vote on. There were some things in that budget that made me want to vomit. I vowed to fight it, until some of the older guys pulled me aside and pointed out that there would never be a budget that I would completely agree with.

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I took another look at it, and then after a closer review, I realized that I agreed with about eighty percent of the stuff that was in there.

“Michael, there are four hundred and thirty-five members in the House of

Representatives. There is no way I will ever be able to send a budget up there that everyone agrees with. Now, I know you want the REA disbanded, and to be honest, we wanted to kill the damn program for the past twenty years, but we’re in a goddamned war here, Michael. If I torpedo the REA, my budget will be sunk faster than the Titanic. I

agree with you in theory. The REA has to go, but in the real world if I want to pass all the other things that will help make this country a better place to live, I have to make some compromises. And the REA is one of those ugly things I have to let slide, so we can achieve what is best for the country.” The President paused for effect, and O’Rourke offered no response. “Michael, do you understand the position I’m in?

I will never be able to present a budget that will make everybody happy. I need you to ask yourself if you’re being realistic …. I’m up here taking the heat. I’m running the show, and if this budget doesn’t get passed, I will be severely hampered in my ability to put this country back on its feet. I’m asking you for a big favor …. I was in your shoes once before

…. I need you to ignore the twenty percent that you don’t like and help me pass this budget. If you come on board, Michael, I can guarantee that you’ll go a long way in politics.” Stevens paused to give O’Rourke some time to think of the ways the President of the United States could help his career. “What do you say, Michael? Can I count on your vote tomorrow?” There was a long, awkward silence as O’Rourke sat in his office and cursed himself for taking the call. He did not want to get into a debate with the

President right now. So, true to his typical form, he cut straight to the heart of the matter.

“Mr. President, there is very little that I like about your budget. My vote will be no tomorrow, an there is nothing that will change that. I’m sorry to have wasted your time by accepting this call.”

Without waiting for a response, O’Rourke hung up. THE PRESIDENT sat IN

DISBELIEF BEHIND HIS DESK, STARING AT THE phone. He looked over at Garret and asked, “Did he just hang up on me?”

“The guy must be an idiot. He’s definitely not going to be around this town for long.

Don’t let it bother you. I’ll have Koslowski take care of him.” Garret rose and started to walk toward the door. “I’ll be right back. I have to get something from my office. Mark, get him started on the calls to Dreyer and Hampton. Jim, all they want is a verbal guarantee from you that you won’t back their opponents in next year’s election. I’ll be back in five minutes.” Garret walked down the hallway, ignoring all in his path. He entered his office, closed the door, and headed straight for his desk.

Before grabbing the phone, he picked up a pack of Marlboro 100s and shoved one in his mouth. After lighting it, he took two deep drags and filled his lungs. The President wouldn’t allow Garret to smoke in the Oval Office, so he tended to find an excuse about every hour to sneak away to his office. He picked up the handset of his phone and

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punched in the number for the direct line to Jack Koslowski’s office. A gruff voice answered the phone on the other end. “Yeah.”

“Jack, Stu here. How are things going?”

“We’re holding the line. No one is going to break ranks on this one.

All we need is for you boys and Tom to come through.”

“We both know Tom will have Moore delivered to us by noon, but we need some people to jump ship from the other side.”

“Who do you have in mind?”

“For starters I need you to lean on this O’Rourke clown. The President just tried to give him the soft shoe and it went over like a lead balloon. Stevens gave him a five—

minute speech and then O’Rourke hung up on him.”

“You’re shitting me. He hung up on Stevens?” Koslowski started to laugh.

Garret did not think it was funny. “Lean on him hard, and if there’s anyone else you can think of, we need them by noon.”

“I’ll put my boys on the street and see what I can do. I’ll let you know as soon as I find anything out.” Both men hung up. Congressman O’Rourke was sitting at his desk, reading over some documents and dictating notes, when the door to his office burst open. A

slender, well-dressed man, who looked vaguely familiar, pushed his way past Susan and approached Michael’s desk. In an irritated voice Susan said, “I’m sorry, sir, but I told this man that you weren’t taking visitors this morning.”

The man stepped forward. “I apologize for the intrusion, Congressman O’Rourke, but

I’m one of Chairman Koslowski’s aides. He has a proposal he would like you to consider, and he needs an answer immediately.”

Michael leaned back in his chair and realized where he’d seen the dark-haired man before. Michael’s gaze turned from the aide to his secretary. “Thank you, Susan, I’ll see the gentleman.” Susan retreated from the office and closed the door. The chairman’s aide stepped forward and extended his hand across the desk. O’Rourke remained seated and took the man’s hand.

“Congressman O’Rourke, my name is Anthony Vanelli.” O’Rourke placed his

Dictaphone on the desk behind several stacks of files and said, “Please take a seat, Mr.

Vanelli.” O’Rourke had heard several stories about the aide and doubted this would be a friendly visit. Vanelli sat down in one of the chairs in front of O’Rourke’s desk and crossed his legs.

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“Congressman O’Rourke, I’ve been sent here to find out if you’re still going to vote against the President’s budget, and if you are, what we can do to change your mind.”

“Mr. Vanelli, I assume you know I spoke to the President this morning.”

“I am fully aware of that, Congressman O’Rourke, but time is running short and we need to know who is standing with us and who is standing against us.” O’Rourke leaned forward and placed his elbows on the desk.

“Well, Mr. Vanelli, I have made my position very clear from the start.

I will vote no for the budget unless the President cuts all funding for the Rural

Electrification Administration.”

“All right, Congressman, let’s cut to the chase. We live in the real world, and in the real world, the Rural Electrification Administration is going to continue to exist. It’s just the way things operate around here. You have to try to get over the little things and concentrate on the big picture. You can’t damn the whole budget just because you don’t like one little part of it.”

“Mr. Vanelli, I would hardly consider a half billion dollars little.

The thing you people don’t understand is that I consider most of the President’s budget to be a waste. I am merely focusing on the Rural Electrification Administration because it’s an easy target. You must agree with the simple logic that when an institution is founded to solve a problem, once that problem is solved, the institution should be closed. All of rural America has been electrified for over twenty years, but we continue to bleed the tax payers for about five hundred million dollars a year, just so Congressman and Senators can send pork back to their constituents. It’s a crime that the President is predicting a one-hundred-billion-dollar budget deficit and garbage like this isn’t being cut.” O’Rourke looked down to make sure the Dictaphone was still running. Vanelli stood from his chair and walked toward the other end of the office. “They told me you were a flake,” he said over his shoulder.

O’Rourke smiled to himself as he looked at Vanelli’s back and said, “Excuse me.

What did you just say?” Vanelli turned around and strutted back to the desk. “Enough of the bullshit, Mike. I’m not here to talk political theory with you, nor to discuss what is ethically correct.

That’s for people like you and your loser friends to waste time on.”

“Mr. Vanelli, I don’t remember giving you permission to call me by my first name.”

“Listen, Mike, Mikey, or dickhead, I’ll call you whatever I want. All you are is a naive little freshman Congressman who thinks he has all the solutions. We’re about the same age, but we’re worlds apart.

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I’m a realist and you’re an idealist. Do you know where idealists get in this town?

Nowhere! They go absolutely nowhere! They sent me down here to give you one last chance. You either get on board with the President’s budget or your career is over. The choice is simple. You help us out and Chairman Koslowski will make sure some extra money finds its way into your district. If you don’t, you’ll be out of a job next year.”

O’Rourke looked up at the man standing over his desk and rose to meet the challenge.

The six-foot-three, 210-pound O’Rourke smiled slightly and asked, “Mr. Vanelli, what exactly do you mean, my career will be over?” Vanelli took a step backward and replied, “You either play ball with us or we’ll ruin your career. Chairman Koslowski will make sure he cuts off every penny from getting to your district.

We’ve got people right now who are digging through your past. If we find anything dirty, we’ll spread it all over town, and if we don’t, we’ll make something up. We own enough people in the press. We could ruin you in a week. We’re done playing nice guy.”

Vanelli shook his finger in O’Rourke’s face. “I’m going to wait in your lobby for exactly five minutes. I want you to sit in here and think about having your career ruined over one stupid vote, and when you’re done, I want an answer.”

Vanelli turned for the door. O’Rourke reached forward and grabbed the Dictaphone with his left hand. He took his thumb and pressed the rewind button. The tiny machine started to squeak as the tape spun in reverse.

Vanelli heard the familiar sound and turned to look. Michael held up the’ tiny machine and pressed play. Vanelli’s voice emanated from the small box. “We’ve got people right now who are digging through your past. If we find anything dirty, we’ll spread it all over town, and if we don’t, we’ll make something up. We own enough people in the press.

We could ruin you in a week.” Vanelli stormed across the room and lunged for the

Dictaphone. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

O’Rourke’s right hand shot up and grabbed Vanelli’s outstretched hand.

O’Rourke had practiced the judo move thousands of times while he was in the

Marines.

In one quick motion he twisted Vanelli’s hand until the bottom of the wrist faced the ceiling, then forced the hand back toward the elbow.

Vanelli collapsed to his knees in pain. O’Rourke continued to exert enough force to keep him on the floor. Vanelli looked up with a pained face and screeched, “Let go of my fucking wrist, and give me that goddamn tape.” O’Rourke increased the pressure and

Vanelli let out a squeal. “Listen to me, Vanelli. Just because you’re from Chicago and you have an Italian name doesn’t mean you’re tough. You’re an aide to a Congressman, not a hit man for the Mafia.” Vanelli picked up his right hand and reached for his bent wrist.

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Before he was halfway there, O’Rourke slammed the wrist back another inch and

Vanelli’s free hand shot back to the floor as he let out a scream. “Listen to me, you little punk! I don’t know who you think you are coming in here and threatening me, but if you or your scumbag boss ever bother me again, you’ll have the FBI, 60 Minutes, and every other major news organization in the country crawling up your ass. Do you understand?”

Vanelli was slow to respond, so O’Rourke increased the pressure and repeated the question.

“Do you understand?” Vanelli shook his head yes and started to whimper.

O’Rourke set the tape recorder on his desk, dropped to one knee, and grabbed Vanelli by the chin. He stared into his eyes and in a firm, precise voice said, “If you ever screw with me again, I’ll do a hell of a lot more than twist your wrist.”

Garret came bursting into the Oval Office. He’d been running back and forth between his office and the President’s all morning, sneaking puffs of cigarettes and screaming into his phone. He strutted across the room to where the President and Dickson were sitting.

“I’ve got great news; Moore is on board.” The President punched his fist into the air, and all three men let out a yell. “Jim, I think we should postpone the press conference until one P.M.”

“Stu, you know I hate postponing those things. It’s just going to make us look like we’re unorganized.” Garret grabbed a fresh piece of paper and leaned over the table. He wrote the number 209 in the upper left-hand corner and 216 in the upper right. “We were at two hundred and nine votes versus two hundred sixteen this morning. Since then we’ve picked up Moore, Reiling, and one of those hicks. They were all undecided, and we got

Dreyer and Hampton to defect. That’s minus two for them and plus five for us. That puts us at two hundred fourteen apiece.”

Garret stood up and screamed, “God, I love this tension. We’re going to win this damn thing.” The President and Dickson smiled. “I see where you’re headed with this, Stu,” said the President. “You would like to turn this thing into a little victory announcement.”

“Exactly. If we can wait until one, I think Jack and Tom can pick up enough votes to give us a little breathing room. Tom’s office has already leaked that Moore settled. The rest of the gamblers will be making their deals as soon as possible.” The President looked up at Garret with a smile and conceded.

“Stu, do what you have to do to move it from twelve to one o’clock, but try to be gentle with Ms. Moncur.” Garret nodded, then headed off to get the job done. He would be about as gentle with Ann Moncur as a five-year-old boy is with his three-year-old baby brother. He was in one of his zones. Victory was just around the corner, and he

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would do anything to win. He had no time for frail egos and overly sensitive, politically correct appointees. He was on the front line and they were nothing more than support people. It was always amazing to him that the people who complained the most were usually the ones who were trying to justify their jobs. The people in the trenches never complained. They just continued to produce results. Koslowski was like that. He didn’t care if it looked pretty or not, he just made sure the job got done.

Their new ally, Arthur Higgins, was a producer. No bullshit, no complaining, only results. He made a mental note to thank Mike Nance, the national security adviser, for setting that one up. God, did he do a nice job on Frank Moore. That could be the one that put them over the top. THE PRESIDENT AND HIS ENTOURAGE WERE STANDING

IN THE ANTEROOM located behind the White House Press Room. They could hear

Ann Moncur explaining to the White House press corps that the President had a busy afternoon and would not be able to answer a lot of questions. Stevens was a little nervous.

It had been almost four months since his last press conference. The honeymoon between him and the press had ended in the middle of his second year of office. During the first year and a half he could do no wrong. The press had backed him during the election, and he had in turn given them unprecedented access. The honeymoon soured when certain members of the press corps remembered that their job was to report the facts and keep the public informed.

Several potential scandals were uncovered, but before they became full-blown stories, Stu Garret stepped in and put out the fires.

Documents were shredded, people were paid to keep quiet or lie, and everything was emphatically denied and denounced as a ploy by the opposition to smear the President.

When the scandals finally died, Garret laid out a new strategy for the President when it came to dealing with the press: act hurt, betrayed, and keep your distance.

The President gladly complied with his chief of staff’s plan, and the new strategy had partially worked. Some in the press were in awe of the President and yearned for the relationship they had had with him during his first year in office, but the hardened reporters saw right through the scam. Too many documents had miraculously disappeared, and too many sources had changed their story overnight. The old guard of the press corps had been around too long to be taken in by the feigned isolation of the

President. They were cynical, and to them, professional politicians did nothing that wasn’t calculated. If the President was isolating himself from the press, it wasn’t because his feelings were hurt. It was because he had something to hide. Garret had pulled the

President away from the rest of the group and was reminding him which reporters he should steer clear of during the question-and-answer period. “Now, Jim, don’t forget, no more than four questions, and whatever you do, don’t recognize Ray Holtz from the Post and Shirley Thomas from the Times.” The President nodded in agreement.

Garret grabbed him by the shoulder and started to lead him toward the stage. “I’ll be right there if anyone backs you into a corner, and remember, only four questions and then you have to go meet the new premier of Ukraine. If they whine about how short it is, just

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smile and tell them you’re sorry, but you’ve got a full calendar and you’re already running behind.” The President smiled at Garret. “Stu, relax, I’ve done this before.” Garret smiled back. “I know, that’s what makes me nervous.” Ann Moncur was still addressing the gallery when she noticed the reporters look to her right. She glanced over and saw the

President standing in the tiny doorway. “Good afternoon, Mr. President.

Are you ready to take over?” The President bounded up the two small steps and walked toward the podium, extending his right hand. “Thank you, Ann.” The two shook hands, and Moncur went to join Stu Garret and Mark Dickson, who were standing against the wall. While the President organized his notes, the photographers were busy snapping shots. After a brief moment, he cleared his throat and looked up from the podium.

With a slight smile he greeted the press corps, “Good afternoon.” The press responded in kind, and the President’s slight smile turned into a big one. Like most politicians, Stevens knew how to work the crowd, and his most successful tool of all was his larger-than-life smile.

What most of the people in the room didn’t know was that the smile had been rehearsed. Few things in this administration happened by accident. Stu Garret made sure of that. The smile had its desired effect, and the majority of the people sitting in the gallery smiled back. The President placed his thin, well-manicured hands on the edges of the podium and cleared his throat again. “I have called this press conference to announce a victory for the American people. During the past week, this administration has battled partisan politics, disinformation, gridlock, and a thirty-two vote deficit to secure the successful passage of my budget in the House of Representatives. As of noon today, we have obtained two hundred twenty votes, enough for a narrow margin of victory. “I

would be remiss if I did not take this opportunity to thank the esteemed Speaker of the

House, Mr. Thomas Basset, for all of the hard work he has done to ensure passage of this budget. His hard work will help put us another step closer to getting this country back on the road to a speedy economic recovery.” The President glanced down at his watch, then brought his gaze back to the reporters. “I’m sorry for being so brief, but I have an extremely busy calendar today, and I’m already running an hour behind. I have a couple of minutes to field a few brief questions.” Hands immediately shot up, and a dozen or so reporters started to shout questions. The President turned to his right and looked for the familiar face of Jim Lester, the ABC White House correspondent.

Lester was sitting on the edge of his chair, right hand raised, obediently waiting to be called on. Stevens pointed in his direction and called his name. The rest of the reporters fell silent as Lester rose from his chair. “As of this morning, sir, it was reported that you had secured approximately two hundred ten votes. How did you pick up the remaining ten so quickly, and are any of those new votes coming from Congressman who were previously committed to voting against your budget?”

“Well … we picked up the ten so quickly because there are a lot of people up on the

Hill who know, despite what the opposition has been saying, that this is a good budget.

There are a lot of people in this country who need the relief this budget will provide, and

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there were several Congressman who, after taking a more serious look at the budget, realized it would be mean-spirited not to vote for it.” The President turned his head away from Lester, and the hands shot up immediately. He rested his gaze and forefinger on another friendly face, Lisa Williamson, the White House correspondent for the

Associated Press.

“Mr. President, are you worried that with such a narrow victory in the House, your budget will have a harder time getting through the Senate, where the opposition holds a much higher percentage of seats?” Stevens wasted no time responding. The question was anticipated and the answer prepared. “Not really. The American people want this budget, and our Senators know that. They will do what is right and they will pass the budget.”

Stevens started to turn to find another reporter before he finished answering the question.

More hands shot up, and this time the President turned to find Mick Turner from CNN.

“Mr. President, the successful passage of this budget through the House will be a political home run for your administration. How much do you think it will improve your position when negotiating with the Japanese during next month’s trade talks?”

“Well, the Japanese have a history of walking away from these talks in a better position than when they entered them. This is somewhat ironic when one considers the fact that they have been running an ever-increasing trade surplus with us for the last fifteen years. The trade deficit that we run with them is hurting American labor. We are putting out high-quality products and the Japanese refuse to open their markets. This trade deficit is stifling our economy from reaching its full potential, and most importantly, it is costing us American jobs.

There is no doubt that the passage of my budget will be a signal to the Japanese that we are finally ready to reverse a trend that previous administrations let get so out of control. “I have time for one more question.” While Stevens was talking, his head swiveled to take in the whole press gallery. He noticed a stunning brunette sitting in the section usually reserved for foreign press. He decided that since voters cared little about foreign affairs, he would be safe calling on her. He pointed toward the back of the room.

“The young lady in the back rose.”

The President was expecting to hear a foreign accent and was somewhat shocked when she stood and spoke perfect English. “Mr. President, Liz Scarlatti from the

Washington Reader. Congressman Michael O’Rourke from Minnesota has said that even though he thinks your budget is, quote, ‘stuffed with more pork than a Jimmy Dean sausage,’ he would still be willing to vote for it if you shut down the Rural Electrification

Administration, an agency that is estimated to cost the American taxpayer five hundred to seven hundred million dollars a year.

This agency was founded in 1935 for the sole purpose of bringing electricity to rural

America …. My question is this: Mr. President, I know that the leaders of our country are very busy, but have you or anyone else in Washington noticed that all of rural America has had electricity for over twenty years? And now that you’ve been informed, what are

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you going to do to shut down this wasteful program?” Many of the reporters in the audience started to chuckle.

With a forced smile, the President pulled out his best, good-old-boy drawl. “Well, Ms. Scarlatti, first of all, this budget is one of the leanest budgets that any President in the last twenty years has sent to the Hill.” Eyes started to roll in the audience. The cynical members of the press were getting sick of hearing the tactless rhetoric of the President. It was cute for the first year, but they’d grown tired of it. “And second of all, I have been trying to shut down the REA ever since I took office, but the hard fact remains that if I

killed the REA, my budget would never make it out of committee.” Before the President could continue, the fiery brunette shouted again from the back row.

“Mr. President, don’t you think it is a harsher fact of reality that your budget is forecasting a one-hundred-billion-dollar deficit and you are still funding Federal agencies that are obsolete? Not to mention the fact that you have done nothing to control the growth of Social Security and Medicare!”

Stu Garret could see that the President was in trouble, so he stepped forward and touched his elbow. The President turned and Garret pointed to his watch. Stevens turned back to the press and said, “People, I’m running very late. Let me finish the young lady’s question and then I’m going to have to leave …. This administration is very concerned about finding and getting rid of government waste.

Vice President Dumont is heading up a task force right now that is vigorously searching for ways to cut government waste. This has been a major priority of my administration and will continue to be one. Thank you all very much for your time and have a good day.” The President stepped back from the podium and waved good-bye.

Reporters continued to shout questions as Stevens walked off the stage. Once backstage, Stu Garret grabbed him by the arm and pulled him close. “What in the hell were you doing calling on someone you didn’t know?”

“She was sitting in the foreign-press section. I called on her because I thought she would ask me a question on foreign affairs. Relax, Stu, I handled it fine.” Garret frowned deeply. “Foreign affairs, my ass.

You were thinking of another type of affair. You know which reporters to call on if you want a question on foreign affairs. That was stupid.

From now on, stick with the program!”

10:40 P.M Thursday

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THE BLUE VAN WOUND ITS WAY THROUGH THE TINY WASHINGTON, D.C neighborhood of Friendship Heights. Dark green letters strewn across the side of the van read, “Johnson Brothers’ Plumbing, 24 Hour Emergency Service Available.”

Inside were two men, both in their late twenties, both extremely fit.

They were wearing dark blue coveralls and matching baseball hats. The van slowed down and turned into a narrow, poorly lit alley. Ten yards into the alley the van rolled to a stop and the driver pulled the gear lever up and into reverse. Pulling back out into the street, the van stopped again and then headed back in the direction from which it had just come. To anyone who may have been watching, it looked as if the plumber’s van was harmlessly searching for a house in need of its services. Back in the alley, behind a row of garbage cans, the dark-haired former passenger of the van crouched silently and observed.

After several minutes, he stood and slowly started down the alley, going from shadow to shadow, quietly walking on the balls of his feet.

Six houses down, he stopped behind a garage on his right. It belonged to Mr. Harold

J. Burmiester. He grabbed a plastic bag from inside his pocket, reached over the seven-foot fence, and dumped the bag’s contents into the backyard. Huddling between the corner of the fence and the garage, he pressed the light on his digital watch.

It was 10:44 P.M. He would have to wait another fifteen minutes to make sure the bait was taken. Burmiester felt that high-tech security systems were a waste of money.

His was the only house on the block that did not have one, and the only house on the block that had never been burglarized. This distinction was directly attributable to a rather large German shepherd named Fritz. The unwelcome observer waited quietly in the shadows, as he had done on dozens of previous nights, waiting and watching, recording times and taking notes-always reassured by the punctuality of the retired banker. At 10:55, the backyard floodlight was turned on, and a silhouette of the fence was cast across the alley onto the neighbor’s garage. A moment later, the door opened and the tags on Fritz’s collar could be heard jingling as he bounded down the steps and across the yard. Every night at exactly 10:55, Burmiester would let Fritz out to go to the bathroom, then let him back in five minutes later, just in time for his owner to watch the nightly news. The dog ran straight to the back fence, where his master had trained him to go to the bathroom. Fritz was urinating on the fence when he started to sniff frantically.

Dropping his leg, he ran toward the corner where the meat had been deposited and immediately started to snap up the small pieces of beef. The motionless man listened intently as the dog feasted on the meat. After several minutes, the creaking noise of the back door opening broke the silence of the cool night air, and without being called, Fritz sprang away from the fence and ran into the house.

12:05 A.M Friday

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Daniel Fitzgerald’s limousine lumbered north along Massachusetts Avenue. It was just after midnight, and the Senator was sitting in the backseat, drinking a glass of Scotch and reading the Post. He’d just left his third party of the evening and was on his way home.

Fitzgerald was the chairman of the Senate Finance Committee and one of the most powerful men in Washington. He had a full head of gray hair and a red, bulbous nose that was a direct result of his heavy drinking.

The Senator had two vices—women and alcohol. He had already been married three times and was currently separated from his third wife.

He’d been through approximately a half dozen treatment programs, none of which had worked. Several years earlier, he’d decided to stop fighting his addiction. He loved the booze, and that was that.

During all of the personal turmoil’s of ruined marriages, bouts with depression, and six children that he didn’t know, the Senator had always clung to one thing-his job. It was all that was left in his life.

Fitzgerald had been in Washington for over forty years. After graduating from Yale

Law School, he had gone to work for a prestigious law firm in Boston, and then, at the age of twenty-eight, he was elected to the United States House of Representatives. After serving as a Congressman for three terms, one of the two Senate seats in his home state became available. At the urging and financial backing of his father, Fitzgerald launched the most expensive campaign New Hampshire had ever seen. The political machine his father had built ensured a victory, and Fitzgerald was elected to the United States Senate.

For the last thirty-four years, he’d survived scandal after scandal and hung on to that seat like a screaming child clutching his favorite toy. Fitzgerald had been a politician his entire adult life, and he knew nothing else. He’d grown numb to the day-to-day dealings of the nation’s capital. The forty-plus years of lying, deceit, deal cutting, career trashing, and partisan politics had become so ingrained in Fitzgerald that he not only thought his behavior was acceptable, he truly believed it was the only way to do business. Dan

Fitzgerald had been pulled into the vacuum of Washington politics, and like so many before him, he’d checked his conscience and morals at the door. For Fitzgerald, such things as integrity, hard work, taking charge of one’s own life, individual freedom, and the Constitution of the United States had little meaning. To him, being a leader of the country was not about doing the right thing. It was about holding on to power.

Holding on no matter what it took. Fitzgerald was addicted to power no differently than a crack addict is addicted to the rock. He always needed more, and he could never get enough. Fitzgerald lived only for the present and the future. He had never bothered to look back on his life until now. He was experiencing something that many of his predecessors had gone through late in their careers. He’d sold his soul and integrity to get to the top, and now that he was there, he was starting to realize it was a lonely place.

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With old age staring him straight in the face, he was, for the first time, forced to look back on his life with a critical eye. He had always known he was a failure as both a father and a husband. Everything he had, he’d put into his career. Leaning his head against the window, he took a long pull off the fresh drink and closed his eyes. Senator Daniel

Fitzgerald had never been interested in the truth, but now in his waning years, he could no longer escape it. He had never liked being alone. He had always needed others around to feel secure, and it had only gotten worse over the years. He had worked his whole life to get where he was, and now that he was there, he had no one to share it with. But, even worse was that deep down inside something was telling him he had wasted his life fighting for the wrong things. He finished off the glass of Dewar’s and poured another.

The limousine turned off Massachusetts Avenue and wound through the narrow residential streets of Kalorama Heights. One block before its destination, the limousine passed a plain, white van. Inside were two men who had been waiting-waiting and preparing for this night for over a year. The limo stopped in front of Fitzgerald’s $1.2-million brownstone, and the driver jumped out to open the door for his boss. By the time he got around to the rear of the car, Fitzgerald was out of the backseat and stumbling toward the house. Fitzgerald fancied himself too important a man to shut car doors, so as usual, he left it for the driver to take care of. The driver shut the door and wished his employer a good night.

Fitzgerald ignored the pleasantry and continued up the steps to his front door. The driver walked back around to the other side of the limo and watched Fitzgerald punch in his security code and unlock the door.

When the door opened and the Senator stumbled into the foyer, the driver got into the limo and drove away. Fitzgerald set his keys down on a table to the left of the door and reached for the light switch.

He flipped it up, but nothing happened. He tried it several more times, and the result was the same. Swearing to himself, he looked around the dark house. The front door was bordered on both sides by panes of glass six inches wide that ran from the top of the door to the floor. Through the two narrow windows, the streetlight provided a faint glow to the front hallway. From where Fitzgerald stood, he could barely make out the white tile floor of the kitchen, just thirty feet away, straight down the hallway. As he started for the kitchen, he passed the dark entryway to the living room on his right and the stairs that led to the upper floors on his left. His heavy, expensive wing tips echoed throughout the house as they struck the hardwood floor with each step. The dim light shining through the windows cast a long shadow of him that stretched down the hallway toward the kitchen.

With each step his round body blocked more and more of the light coming from the street. By the time he reached the kitchen, he was surrounded by darkness. He turned to his left and searched for the light switch.

Before Fitzgerald could find it, a pair of gloved hands came out of the darkness and grabbed him from behind.

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The blond-haired intruder yanked the older man off his feet and slammed him face first into the tiled floor. Dropping down on his target, the powerful man thrust his knee into the center of Fitzgerald’s upper back and grabbed the Senator’s head with both hands.

In one quick burst of strength the assassin brought all of his weight down on the back of

Fitzgerald’s head and yanked up on his chin. The noise that the Senator’s neck made as it snapped shot through the quiet house like a brittle tree limb broken over a knee. The crack was followed by silence, and then an eerie gurgling noise that emanated from

Fitzgerald’s throat.

The dying Senator’s eyes opened wider and wider until they looked as if they were about to pop out. About thirty seconds later the gurgling noise subsided, and Fitzgerald’s body lay lifeless on the cold, tile floor. The assassin rose to his feet and exhaled a deep breath. He looked down at the dead body on the floor with a sense of great satisfaction.

The killer standing over Fitzgerald had just avenged the deaths of eight of his closest friends-eight men who had died a senseless death in a desolate desert, thousands of miles away, all because men like Fitzgerald didn’t know how to keep their mouths shut.

The killing of Fitzgerald was personal, but the next two would be business. The thin arm of a microphone hung in front of the assassin’s square jaw. He spoke with a precise voice, “Number one is in the bag, over.” After a brief second, a confirmation came crackling through his earpiece, and he went back to work. Grabbing the body by the ankles, he dragged it down into the basement and deposited it in a large storage closet.

The assassin took one last tour through the house, collecting the electronic listening devices he had placed there the previous week.

Before leaving, he zipped the collar on his coat up around his chin and pulled his baseball hat down tight over his short, blond hair. He stood at the back door momentarily, looking out the window into the small yard. The wind was picking up, and the trees were swaying back and forth. Once again he spoke softly into the mike, “I’m on my way, over.”

He locked the door and closed it behind him. Casually he walked across the yard, through the gate, and into the alley. When he reached the end of the alley, the white van stopped just long enough for him to climb in, then sped off down the street.

3:45 Friday

The blue Johnson Brothers’ Plumbing van was again driving through the streets of

Friendship Heights. It pulled into the same alley it had stopped in five hours earlier.

While the van was still moving, the passenger jumped down onto the pavement and walked beside it, crouching and holding on to the door. The dome light on the inside of the van had been removed. As the van stopped, the broad-shouldered, dark-haired man quietly closed the door and darted into the shadows.

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He waited while the van drove away.

Slung over his shoulder was a large black canvas bag. After several minutes passed, he started to make his way down the alley. When he reached Burmiester’s fence, he pulled a can of WD-40 out of his bag and sprayed the hinges of the gate. He waited for the oil to take effect, then carefully lifted the latch on the gate and opened it. Slipping into the backyard, he dropped down behind a row of bushes and looked up at the windows of Burmiester’s house and the neighbors’, waiting to see a face peering out or a light being turned on, announcing that someone had seen him. For almost five minutes he sat behind the bush, waiting and watching. There was time to be careful and that was the way he liked it, the way he’d been trained. The man reached into the bag, this time retrieving a pair of wire cutters. Cautiously rising to his feet, he walked along the edge of the garage and then darted across the small open space to the back stoop, where he crouched down. Again, he used the can of WD-40, spraying the hinges of the screen door. While he waited for the oil to soak in, he grabbed the pair of wire cutters and cut the phone line running into the basement of the house. He put the wire cutters back in the bag and grabbed a glass cutter. Jumping up on the stoop he opened the screen door about two feet and slid in between it and the back door. The back door was wood with the top third split into four sections of glass. He placed the cup of the glass cutter in the middle of the bottom left pane and swung the cutting edge around the suction cup in a clockwise direction. After five revolutions, he took both hands and pressed in on the newly created circle. The freshly cut piece of glass popped free and stayed attached to the suction cup.

Sticking his arm through the hole, he unlocked the door, opened it, and stepped into the kitchen, carefully closing the door behind him. He stood completely still and looked out the window, staring at the neighbors’ houses, looking for anything that might have changed while his ears focused on the inside of the house. He heard the dog breathing and turned to see him lying on a piece of carpet in front of the kitchen table, completely relaxed and limp. Pulling the microphone down from under the brim of his baseball cap, he spoke in a soft whisper, “I’m in, over.” His partner was sitting in the blue van, six blocks away, around the corner from a small, twenty-four-hour convenience store. He was monitoring the local police scanner.

Calmly, he spoke into the microphone hanging in front of his mouth, “Roger that, everything is clear on my end, over.”

The man in the kitchen of Burmiester’s house pushed the microphone back up under the brim of his hat and slowly removed the black bag from over his shoulder. Gently placing it on the floor, he retrieved a gas mask and a green tank with a clear rubber hose attached to the end. With the tank and mask in hand, he walked down the uncarpeted hallway toward the front door and the staircase that led to the second floor. When he reached the foot of the staircase, he stopped and leaned forward, placing his hands on the fourth step. Again he paused, not moving, just listening. After he was sure that

Burmiester had not been awakened, he started to crawl up the steps, keeping his hands and feet away from the center of the stairs, leaning forward, trying to keep his weight as equally distributed as possible, not wanting the old stairs to creak and wake the owner.

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When he reached the second floor, he stayed on his knees and continued to crawl slowly toward the master bedroom, about twenty feet away. Once again, he waited patiently and listened. Gently, he stuck the rubber tube under the door, put his gas mask on, and opened the valve on the tank. Sitting down with his back against the wall, he started the timer on his watch. After fifteen minutes had elapsed, he turned off the valve and pulled the tube out from under the door. Slowly, he opened the door and peeked into the room. Burmiester was lying with his back to the door and showed no signs of movement. The intruder pushed the door the rest of the way open and walked over to the bed. Reaching down, he nudged Burmiester several times. The old man didn’t move. He took the glove off his right hand, placed it on Burmiester’s neck, and checked his pulse.

After checking it twice more, he concluded with relief that the old man was fine. The intruder did not know the man he was standing over, and he did not wish to see him die.

Harold Burmiester was not the man he was after tonight.

He walked around the bed to the double window that looked out onto the street below and stared straight across at the house opposite Burmiester’s. He lowered the mike and said, “I’m in position.

Everything looks good, over.”

The response came crackling back through his earpiece immediately. “Roger, everything is quiet on this end, over.” Five miles away on the other side of the Potomac

River, the second team had moved into position. The nondescript white van was parked on a quiet side street. Inside, the blond-haired assassin was undergoing a change. He’d taken off his dark jeans, jacket, and boots and had replaced them with a gray pair of sweatpants, a blue sweatshirt, and a pair of Nike running shoes. He sat still while one of the other men carefully applied black makeup to his face, neck, and ears. The makeup was for camouflage, but not in the typical military sense. It was meant to be noticed and to deceive, not to conceal.

After the makeup job was completed, a tight, black Afro wig was placed over his blond hair, and a pair of brown contacts were inserted over his blue eyes. Next, he put his headset back on and pulled a University of Michigan baseball hat over his head.

5:55 A.M Friday

The screen covering Mr. Burmiester’s bedroom window had been taken off, and the owner of the house had been carefully moved from the master bedroom down the hall to one of the guest rooms. The intruder was sitting on a wooden chair, staring out the window at a pair of French doors located on the second floor of the house across the street.

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Resting on his lap was a Remington M-24 military sniper rifle with a customized silencer attached to the end of the barrel. A round was in the chamber but the rifle was still on safety. The alarm on his watch had beeped five minutes earlier, and he was trying to stay relaxed.

The sky was just starting to brighten and the birds were chirping. His target would be rising any minute, and he was making a conscious effort to control his breathing and keep his adrenaline level low. A light was turned on across the street, and the drapes on the other side of the French doors turned from gray to yellow. In one fast motion he brought the rifle up into a firing position, pressing the stock between his shoulder and left cheek.

His finger came up and flipped off the safety, while he centered the crosshairs on the middle of the French doors. He continued taking slow, controlled breaths. A blurred shadow moved from behind the curtains. The shooter inhaled deeply, and just when his lungs were fully expanded, the doors across the street opened.

As they swung inward, they revealed the pudgy, pink-and-white body of

Congressman Jack Koslowski. Wearing only a pair of baby blue boxers, he turned and started for the bathroom. The center of the crosshairs were resting on the small of

Koslowski’s hairy back. The right hand of the assassin rose slightly, and the rifle followed. The crosshairs slid up the spinal column, past the shoulder blades, and rested just below the bald spot on the back of Koslowski’s head. The upper body of the assassin twisted as the sight followed the target across the room.

The left forefinger started its slow, even squeeze on the trigger. A second later it caught, and the hammer slammed forward. The hollow-point round spiraled its way down the barrel, through the silencer, and sliced its way into the still morning air. The bullet slammed into the back of the Congressman’s head, the hollow point collapsing upon impact. Instead of continuing its clean, tight spiral, the now flattened tip was three times larger than its original size as it ripped through the brain, pushing everything in its path toward the front of the Congressman’s head. The round tore through the right eye socket, taking with it chunks of bone, brain, and flesh. The momentum of the impact propelled

Koslowski forward and pinned him against the side of the bed, leaving his body bent backward and his legs and arms twitching. The assassin had already chambered another round and was maneuvering the crosshairs back into position. The next shot struck

Koslowski at the base of his skull and immediately severed all neural communication between the brain and the rest of his body.

6:15 A.M Friday

Across the Potomac River, in McLean, Virginia, the other group sat and waited for their next target. They were parked across the street from Pimmit Bend Park, facing north on Balentrane Lane, which dead-ended into the park. The driver listened to the police scanner and chewed a piece of gum. Another man was in the back of the van looking out the rear windows at the park. From where they were positioned, he could see the formerly

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blond assassin leaning against a tree next to the jogging path. He was stretching his legs as he waited, trying to make himself look like just another runner. Several joggers and walkers had already passed by and had taken notice of what they thought was a black man getting ready to exercise in their lily-white park. As he let go of his right leg, the assassin grabbed his left leg and pulled it up behind him. He placed his left hand against a tree for balance and looked at his watch. Their next target was due any minute.

The target was Senator Robert Downs, the chairman of the Senate Banking

Committee and the reigning “prince of pork” in the United States Senate.

He lived less than three blocks away and walked his collie religiously every morning, between 6:00 and 6:20 A.M. It was almost a quarter after, and he was due any minute. As the assassin looked up from the tree, he saw the familiar brown English driving cap of

Downs bobbing up and down just on the other side of the slight rise in the path. He was fifty yards away, walking at his usual, leisurely pace. When Downs reached the crest of the small hill, the assassin noticed a woman in a brightly colored tennis warm-up about thirty yards behind the Senator.

She was walking at a fast pace, flailing her arms and swinging her hips from side to side. As they approached his position, the woman was almost ready to pass the Senator.

The assassin noticed she was wearing a Walkman, and he breathed a slight sigh of relief.

No innocent people were to die. When Downs was about twenty yards away, the assassin turned his back to his target, leaned against the tree, pulled his right leg up, and started to stretch again. He could hear the dog panting and the nails of his paws as they struck the black asphalt path. He let go of his right leg and grabbed his left. In a low whisper he spoke into his mike, “How do I look, over?” The man sitting in the back of the van looked to his right and left and then responded, “The only two people in sight are our target and the woman coming up behind him, over.”

“That’s a roger, over.” The assassin turned his head to the right and looked over his shoulder. Downs was within striking distance and the woman was right on his heels. The assassin looked down at the base of the tree and concentrated on his peripheral vision. By the time the two walkers reached the tree, the woman had passed Downs and was steadily increasing the distance between herself and the Senator. The assassin stepped out onto the path and fell into line behind Downs.

After about three strides his left hand slid underneath his baggy sweats and grabbed the waistband of his running tights. His right hand reached in and grabbed the handle of the 9mm Beretta. Picking up the pace, he closed in on the Senator.

Pulling the gun out, he extended his arm and placed the tip of the silencer inches from the back of his target’s head. Two quick rounds were fired into the base of the skull, and

Downs stumbled forward, landing face first on the pavement. The assassin turned and sprinted across the park to the waiting van. The female walker continued her trek without missing a stride as the old collie stood over her dying master and sniffed at the pool of blood that was forming next to his head.

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THE SUN HAD RISEN IN The FALL MORNING SKY AND WAS FIGHTING TO

stay out as the wind picked up and the clouds rolled in. A steady stream of gold and red leaves rustled past the black dress shoes of FBI special agent Skip McMahon. McMahon was the special agent in charge of the FBI’s East Coast Quick Response Team. The Quick

Response Team, or QRT as it was referred to within the Bureau, was composed of an elite group of agents. Their mission was straightforward: to arrive at the crime scene of a terrorist attack and start the immediate collection of evidence and pursuit of the perpetrators while the trail was still warm. The unit had planes, helicopters, and mobile crime labs on twenty-four-hour standby and could be at a crime scene anywhere from

Chicago to Miami to New York within hours. McMahon rested his large body against a police car and held a cup of coffee under his nose. An old football injury to his knee was giving him more trouble than usual this morning. He told himself it was the cold, damp morning air and not his age. The veteran agent watched without emotion as a black body bag containing Senator Fitzgerald was loaded into the back of an FBI van. This was the third crime scene he’d been to this morning, and the quiet intensity of the murders was setting in. It was a foregone conclusion that the murders were linked. They wouldn’t tell the press that, but it didn’t take a genius to figure out they had to be connected.

He looked down at both ends of the street and shook his head at the crowd of media and curious onlookers who were gathered on the other side of the police barricades.

Clasping the cup of coffee with both hands, he closed his eyes and blocked out the surrounding commotion. He tried to imagine exactly how Fitzgerald had been murdered.

McMahon was a strong believer in visualization. In an inexplicable way, he thought that a killer left an aura at the scene of a crime. It was not unusual for McMahon to go back to the places where people had been murdered months, even years, after the crimes had been committed and sit for hours playing scenario after scenario through his head, trying to gain the slightest insight into the mind of the murderer. Putting himself in the shoes of the killer, he thought about the different ways Fitzgerald could have been murdered. After a while he started to look for similarities in the way Koslowski, Downs, and Fitzgerald had been killed. He was making a mental checklist of the questions that needed to be answered: How many killers? Why were they killed? Why these three politicians? Who would have the motive?

McMahon was laying the foundation for his investigation. Everything he was thinking would be transferred onto a blackboard back in the tactical situation room for his team to review. His concentration was broken by a familiar voice calling his name.

McMahon looked up and saw his boss, Brian Roach, walking toward him with his always present bodyguards.

“Skip, anything new to report?” Roach had been with the Bureau for twenty-six years and had served as its director for the last four. He had been a good agent in his day, but that was all history now.

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Running the FBI meant forgetting almost everything he’d learned about law enforcement and concentrating on politics and administration.

McMahon pushed himself away from the squad and stepped toward Roach.

“The forensic teams are going over the crime scenes, and the pathologists should be starting the autopsies within the hour.”

McMahon extended his right hand. Roach shook it and grabbed the larger McMahon by the arm, walking him several steps toward the sidewalk.

Roach’s bodyguards fanned out in a circle. “It’s all set. You’re in charge of the investigation.

There are going to be some people who aren’t going to be too happy about that, but I

don’t care. The fact is you’re the best investigative agent we’ve got, and I need someone I

can trust running this thing.” Roach put one hand in his pocket and straightened his tie with the other. “Skip, the pressure to solve this mess is going to be incredible. It’s going to come from every direction, and most of it’s going to be political. I’ll do my best to screen you from it, but I’m not going to be able to block it all.” McMahon shrugged his shoulders.

“Nothing we’re not used to, right?”

“Yeah, but this is gonna be different. My head hurts when I think about all the political pressure that’s going to be put on us to solve this thing. The other reason why I’m putting you in charge is because I know how much you hate dealing with the press and politicians.

We can’t have any leaks. Make sure your people know, their careers are over if they breathe a word to anyone outside the unit about the investigation.”

“Understood.” Roach looked at his watch. “I need you to come to the White House with me and give a quick briefing. It’s driving the President nuts that the only information he’s getting is from the TV.”

Roach noticed the frown on McMahon’s face and said, “All I need you to do is give them the basics on what you’ve found at the three crime scenes. Come on, let’s go.”

Roach nodded toward his limo and they walked away from the crime scene with the bodyguards in tow. McMahon and Roach had known each other for a long time. The two men had met when McMahon was a second-year agent and Roach was fresh out of the

FBI’s Academy.

Over the last twenty-some years, they’d become good friends. Roach, from the start, wanted to rise to the top of the Bureau, and McMahon never wanted to be anything more than an agent. McMahon’s lack of ambition was twofold. First and foremost, he was a

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realist. He knew himself well and understood that he would never be able to bury his pride and brownnose his way to the upper levels. The director had to be able to play the

Washington game, something the elite investigator was not well suited for. McMahon didn’t beat around the bush; if he thought you were wrong, he told you. It didn’t matter who you were.

This, of course, had not always gone over well. There’d been several politicians and at least one former director who had wanted his career with the FBI terminated.

Luckily for McMahon, he was very good at what he did. This was the second reason for his lack of ambition. He loved his job. Throughout the Bureau, McMahon was recognized as the best homicide investigator.

He was not one to follow FBI procedure like a robot. Other agents from around the country consulted with him on their investigations. He had his own unique way of doing things. During his time at the Bureau he had watched some great investigators waste away after being promoted into cushy administrative jobs. Not Skip McMahon. He had told Roach four years earlier, when his friend became director, “The day you pull me out of the field is the day I retire.” Before climbing into the director’s limo, McMahon yelled to Kathy Jennings, one of the agents who worked under his command. Jennings was talking to a group of agents, all of whom were wearing their standard crime-scene blue

FBI windbreakers. She put her conversation on hold and approached her mentor. Her long auburn hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail.

She greeted the director professionally and then turned to McMahon.

McMahon took a deep breath, told Jennings that he’d be back as soon as possible, and then started to rattle off a list of things for the young agent to check on. “Make sure every level of law enforcement within three hundred miles is notified to be on the lookout for multiple males traveling in generic American-model cars.” McMahon began sticking the forefinger of his right hand into the palm of his left hand as he went down his list.

“Remind them to arrest anyone who they think is the slightest bit suspicious and to hold them until one of our people arrives. Make sure they understand that last part clearly, and make sure the suspect profiles are faxed to all of their officers. When you’re done with that, find out how the teams are doing with the surveillance tapes at Dulles and National, and if anything comes up, call me immediately.” Jennings nodded and watched her boss slip into the backseat of the long dark car. As they drove down the street, McMahon filled

Roach in on the specifics of Fitzgerald’s death.

The director had already been briefed via phone on the murders of Koslowski and

Downs. The drive from Georgetown to the White House took less than ten minutes. As they pulled into the White House compound, Roach asked, “What are the chances we’ll catch these guys before they get away?”

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“We have checkpoints set up on all the roads heading out of town, every airport within three hundred miles is being watched, and the Navy and the Coast Guard are tracking every vessel that’s headed out to sea.”

“So, what are our chances?” McMahon frowned and said, “My gut tells me we’re wasting our time. Whoever did this was good … really good.

They either left the country immediately or they’re holing up somewhere waiting until things cool down.”

“You’re probably right. But we have to be really careful on this one. Otherwise, I’ll be sitting in front of a joint committee next year getting second-guessed by a bunch of old men who want to show their voters back home that they know more than the director of the FBI.”

Roach paused for a moment. “Besides, don’t forget those pros that set off the bomb in the World Trade Center.

Who would have thought they would have been dumb enough to try and get the deposit back on that van? These criminals aren’t always as smart as we think they are.”

“Brian, it doesn’t take a great criminal mind to park a van loaded with explosives in the underground parking garage of the World Trade Center.

But there aren’t many organizations out there who can kill three different people, in three different locations, in one evening, and leave no traces. It’s not like blowing up a pipe bomb at the Olympics.

Any idiot can leave a bomb in a park. It’s far more complicated to get up close and personal when killing someone.” Roach pondered McMahon’s comments as the limousine came to a stop. The director’s bodyguards opened the doors, and Roach said, “Before we go in, let me warn you about a couple of things. Everyone will understand that you haven’t had a lot of time to prepare for this briefing, so keep it simple and try not to editorialize too much. “The President won’t say a lot, but watch out for Garret.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t embarrass you … at least not intentionally.”

McMahon smiled. “One other thing. Don’t stick your neck out too far.

If they ask you for an opinion, and they will, just tell them it’s too early to tell.”

McMahon gave his boss another nod.

“Brian, I have done this before.”

“I know, Skip, but you haven’t dealt with this administration before.”

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Roach lowered his voice to a whisper. “Just trust me, and watch what you say.” The director stepped out of the car first. Roach’s bodyguards walked them to the door and into a small foyer. A Secret Service agent approached and escorted them to the Cabinet

Room. It was not the first time McMahon had been to the White House, but it was the first time he’d been in the Cabinet Room. His other meetings had taken place in either the

Oval Office or the Situation Room in the basement.

As McMahon and Director Roach were getting ready to settle into their chairs, the

President, Garret, and National Security Adviser Mike Nance entered the room with

Garret in the lead. Garret clapped his hands together loudly.

“Come on, gentlemen, let’s get this meeting started.” The President took his seat in the middle of the long table. Garret sat immediately to his right and Nance to his left.

Sitting across from the President were Skip McMahon, FBI director Roach, CIA director

Thomas Stansfield, and the CIA’s top terrorism expert, Dr. Irene Kennedy. Roach and

Stansfield introduced their subordinates, and then Garret started the meeting.

“Well, Director Roach, I sure hope you have some answers for us.”

Roach looked to the President and said, “Mr. President, with the help of the congressional switchboard and several local police departments, we’ve secured the whereabouts of the remaining five hundred and thirty-two Senators and Congressman.

All of the Supreme Court justices, Cabinet members, and Joint Chiefs of Staff have also been accounted for. Right now it looks like the only individuals they were after were

Senator Fitzgerald, Senator Downs, and Congressman Koslowski. “I have a meeting scheduled for one P.M. with Director Tracy of the Secret Service to discuss the resources we have available to provide protection for the remaining members of the House and

Senate. I have already dispatched agents to protect the most senior members of both parties. Until we know more about what is going on, I think we should play it safe.”

Roach turned to Nance. “Mike, before I leave, I would like a minute of your time to discuss what resources we may be able to borrow from the military, such as MPs or

Marines that are trained for embassy duty.”

Nance nodded and Roach continued, “I’m going to have Special Agent McMahon take over from here and fill you in on the specifics of what happened late yesterday evening and early this morning. When he’s finished, I will bring you up to speed on the interdiction measures we’re taking. Special Agent McMahon has been to all three crime scenes this morning.” Roach turned to McMahon and nodded. McMahon cleared his throat and said, “Let me start by saying that this investigation is only a few hours old, so we don’t have a lot of specifics.” McMahon looked from one end of the table to the other as he spoke. “The first of the three to be killed, and the last to be found, was Senator

Fitzgerald.

Fitzgerald’s limousine driven”

Garret interrupted, “Don’t you have a brief prepared, so we can follow?”

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McMahon looked at Roach, giving him a chance to respond, knowing his boss’s reply would be more diplomatic than his own. Roach turned to the President, intentionally bypassing Garret. “Sir, we haven’t had time to prepare a report. We will have one on your desk by two this afternoon.”

“That’s fine. Please continue,” the President responded. Garret shook his head sideways and wrote something down on his yellow notepad.

McMahon started again. “As I was saying, Fitzgerald’s limousine driver reports dropping the Senator off at his house in Kalorama Heights just after midnight. Our preliminary guess on Fitzgerald’s time of death is sometime between midnight and one—

thirty A.M. The cause of death appears to be a broken neck. We’ll know more after the autopsy is completed.”

McMahon paused for a second. “The back door of Fitzgerald’s house shows signs of being picked, and his security system was defeated on-site.

Fitzgerald’s body was found shoved into a closet in the basement. Our best guess right now is that the perpetrator, or perpetrators, were waiting inside the house when Fitzgerald got home, killed him, and then moved the body to the basement.” In a bland tone

McMahon added, “We are questioning the neighbors to see if they saw anything last night, and a forensics team is going over the house checking for evidence.”

“Agent McMahon, you sound as if you don’t expect to find anything,” interrupted

Garret again.

McMahon looked at Garret hard. “Whoever killed these men is very good. It is highly unlikely that they left any useful evidence behind.”

He continued to stare at Garret without saying anything until the President’s chief of staff looked away. “Congressman Koslowski was the next one to die. From what we know so far, Koslowski got out of bed around six A.M. and was shot in the back of the head twice. The shots were fired from a high-powered rifle and were taken from the house across the street. The house belongs to Harold Burmiester, a wealthy, retired banker. When we entered the house this morning, we found that the phone line had been cut and the back door was missing a pane of glass. Burmiester’s German shepherd was unconscious and, we presume, drugged. Burmiester was found tied up in a bedroom on the second floor.

The screen had been removed on the window directly across from Koslowski’s bedroom, and there were powder burns found on the windowsill. “After talking to

Burmiester, we’ve pieced together the following details: Just before eleven P.M. last night, Burmiester let his dog out. At this point, we think the dog was probably drugged.

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Burmiester went to bed around midnight in the bedroom where the shots were fired from. Sometime between twelve-thirty A.M. and five-thirty A.M. the perpetrator or perpetrators broke into the house, rendered Burmiester unconscious, and moved him to a different bedroom. They waited, and when Koslowski opened the doors, they took their shot.

We’re having some blood tests done on Burmiester and his dog, and we should know whether or not they were drugged by early afternoon. The crime boys are going over both houses and the neighbors are being questioned.”

“Where was Koslowski’s wife during all of this?” asked Garret sarcastically.

“Mrs. Koslowski sleeps in another room.” McMahon again attempted to ignore

Garret’s irritating manner. The coolly detached Mike Nance was observing McMahon.

Nance, a graduate of West Point and a former director of the National Security Agency, usually stayed quiet in meetings. He preferred to sit back and take everything in. Unlike

Garret, he believed a person could learn more by watching and listening than by asking questions.

With his eyes still focused on his notepad, Garret shouted out another question. “Has anyone reported hearing shots?”

“No, the distance of the shot was only about one hundred feet.

Short enough that a silencer could be used without affecting the accuracy of the shot.”

McMahon continued to speak without giving Garret a chance to ask more questions. “As

I’m sure everyone has heard by now, Robert Downs was killed in a park by his house, over in McLean.

Two nine-millimeter rounds were fired into the back of his head at point-blank range.

We have a description of a possible suspect from a woman who walks in the park every morning. She says that she passed Downs on the walking path this morning at approximately the spot where his body was found. She, along with several other people, have reported seeing a black man dressed in sweats, standing by a tree about twenty yards from where Downs was killed. None of these people say they’ve seen the person in the park before. Their guess is that he was around thirty years old. Our agents are still interviewing these people, trying to get as much information as possible. I apologize, gentlemen, for the lack of details, but, as I said earlier, this investigation is only a few hours old.”

“Thank you, Mr. McMahon,” said the President. “I fully understand that we are still in the early stages of this investigation, but nonetheless, I would like to hear some opinions.

Does anyone have any idea why these three men were killed, and by whom?” As usual, Garret was the first, and in this situation the least qualified, to respond.

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“Until we know more, I think it’s a pretty safe bet that it’s a terrorist group. One that’s probably not so happy about the peace that’s spreading in the Middle East, or one of those wacky militia groups from out West.”

The President turned to the director of the FBI. “Brian, what are your thoughts?”

“Sir, it’s too early to give an informed answer. There just isn’t enough data to make an intelligent assumption. Almost anything could be possible. It could be anyone.”

The President looked to McMahon and asked, “Mr. McMahon, I know we don’t have all the facts, but please speak your mind.” The President stared at McMahon and waited for a response.

“Well, sir, we have three important politicians murdered at three different locations within a five-hour period. Whoever pulled off this operation had to have been planning it for a long time. They took the time to study their targets and carefully picked when and how to kill each one. They were probably well financed and had access to some very talented killers. Those killers could be terrorists, ex-military commandos, or hired assassins. Given the information we have right now, your guess is as good as mine.”

The President nodded and looked at his chief of staff. Garret took the cue and said, “Gentlemen, the President needs to address the nation and try to explain what’s going on.

Now is not the time to be shy with your opinions.” There was a long silence, and then

Garret looked to the head of the CIA. “Director Stansfield, what’s your take on what happened?”

“I would caution against drawing any conclusions until Special Agent McMahon and his people have had time to investigate.” Stansfield’s response was again followed by an uncomfortable silence. Both Director Stansfield and Director Roach had seen how Garret and President Stevens liked to operate, and neither felt the need to commit to anything with so many questions still unanswered.

Roach and Stansfield had both started at the very bottom of their respective agencies, and over the years, they’d seen Presidents come and go, and with them, their political appointees who ran the CIA and FBI.

Some of these directors were more loyal to the man who had appointed them than to the agency they were supposed to be running. Not Roach and Stansfield: to them the FBI

and CIA came first. Political expediency and posturing were things they liked to avoid at all costs.

Political solutions were often good for the short term, and for the people making them, but they were more often than not disastrous in the long run. The President sat back in his chair and quietly cursed himself for not replacing Roach and Stansfield when he had taken over the White House.

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Garret had wanted both men replaced, and Stevens was sure he would be reminded of this as soon as the meeting was over. If we hadn’t had such a hard time getting cabinet members confirmed, Stevens thought to himself, none of this would be a problem. During the first six months of the Stevens administration, four consecutive cabinet nominees had been shot down. Three had had to bow out after intense scrutiny by the press revealed some minor misdoings in their past, and the fourth made it to an actual committee vote but was embarrassingly rejected. By the time the cabinet was filled, the administration had expended so much political clout and had received such a grilling from the press that they decided rather than risking another potentially embarrassing confirmation hearing, they would be better off leaving Stansfield in charge of the CIA until a more opportune time arose. The President was coming to the realization that he had waited too long.

Stevens looked at Kennedy, the CIA’s terrorism expert.

“Dr. Kennedy, what is your opinion?” Kennedy had the highest IQ in the room by a significant margin. The thirty-eight-year-old mother of one had a Ph.D. in Arabic studies and a master’s degree in military history. The doctor leaned forward and took her glasses off. Her sandy brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she was wearing one of her trademark pantsuits. She placed her arms on the table and started to speak in a confident tone.

“I would have to concur with Special Agent McMahon. The men who conducted this operation are either terrorists, hired assassins, or military commandos. My assumption is that it was the latter of the three.”

Garret blurted out, “What makes you so sure about that?”

“I think they were military commandos because Mr. Burmiester is still alive.” Garret’s face squeezed into an irritated frown. “Mr. Who?”

“Mr. Burmiester, the man who lives across the street from Congressman Koslowski.

If the people who ran this operation were terrorists, Mr. Burmiester would be dead.

Terrorists do not go to the effort to anesthetize people who are in their way. They kill them. If terrorists did this, Mr. Burmiester would be dead as well as the woman who was walking in the park. These murders were committed by military-trained commandos.

“Terrorist and military commandos go through very complex training, and on the surface most of it is similar, such as hand-to-hand combat, demolition training, firearms training, et cetera. However, they are trained very differently in objective and operational planning.

Terrorists do not care about human life. They operate by a different set of rules.

Terrorists are trained to take out their target in a way that is usually very violent. The more violent the better. When they kill, they try to strike terror into the minds of the public. Hence the label terrorist. They use car bombs or they machine-gun people down with absolutely no concern for innocent lives. “Commandos and assassins, who are almost always ex-commandos, are trained to kill only whom they need to, and to do it as quietly and quickly as possible.

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Commandos operate within certain moral parameters. There have been occasions, during times of war or national emergency, when those parameters were bent, and military commandos have killed an innocent bystander. This, however, is the exception to the rule, whereas with terrorists, killing innocent bystanders is the operational norm.

“When we look at conducting an operation like this, we choose our targets and then decide what is the best way to kill the least amount of people and get our assets out safely.”

Garret was irritated by Kennedy’s confident tone. “You seem awfully sure of yourself, Dr. Kennedy. Are you ruling out the possibility that these murders were committed by a terrorist group?”

“I do not think they were committed by a fundamentalist terrorist group.

A group that, as you said earlier, would be unhappy with the peace that is being made in the Middle East. As far as the murders being committed by a group of domestic terrorists, such as one of your antigovernment, Aryan Nation types… I highly doubt they would have the trained personnel it would take to pull something like this off.

Besides, why would they kill someone like Senator Downs? He’s pro-NRA and pro—

military. He’s one of the few politicians those militia members like.”

Garret gestured toward Kennedy. “Well, I’m glad to know that after hearing a ten—

minute briefing, you’ve solved the case for us.”

Garret chuckled mockingly at Kennedy. “How can you say that so emphatically, with such little information?” McMahon stared at Garret and thought to himself, God this guy’s an ass. Director Roach saw the look on McMahon’s face and placed his hand on his friend’s arm.

McMahon pulled away and leaned back in his chair, continuing to stare at Garret.

Kennedy was used to men challenging her intellect and continued to defend her opinion in a professional tone. “It is my job to know how these groups kill, Mr. Garret. If a group, such as Abu Nidal, had committed these murders, they would have simply gone down to one of the more popular dining spots in town, planted a bomb, and exploded it during lunch yesterday. They would have easily killed a dozen Senators and

Congressman, and probably a few cabinet members.” “Why couldn’t it have been a domestic right-wing paramilitary group?”

“It’s possible, but as I said earlier, I don’t think those groups have the resources to conduct an operation like this.”

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In a loud voice Garret half shouted, “If you’re so sure that it wasn’t terrorists, then who did it?” McMahon leaned forward in his chair and placed both forearms on the table.

At six foot three, 240 pounds, he looked like a bear ready to attack.

Before Roach could react, McMahon was speaking. “Mr. Garret, we are all professionals here. There is no reason to get emotional and raise our voices. You asked for our opinions and Dr. Kennedy has respectfully done so. She has given us some very intelligent insight into a case where it is greatly needed. She is not trying to tell us exactly who did it, she is merely helping us narrow our search.”

McMahon continued to stare at Garret as the chief of staff flushed angrily. Mike

Nance could not believe what he was witnessing. He had seen Stu Garret act like this in countless meetings during the last three years. It was a rarity to see anyone put him in his place, let alone an underling from the FBI. The tension in the room continued to build as

McMahon refused to back down.

Director Roach was sitting back in his chair, hand over brow, dreading what might happen next. The President ended the confrontation.

“Everybody calm down. и . . We are all under a lot of pressure, and I’m sure it’s only going to get worse. Let’s relax and discuss Dr. Kennedy’s theory.” While the meeting continued, Bridgett Ryan sat in her cubicle across town at NBC’s Washington bureau and tried to look busy. Bridgett was a senior journalism major at Catholic University and was in the middle of a one-year internship with NBC. Her boss was Mark Stein, the network’s

D.C. bureau chief. Bridgett’s work schedule varied depending on her daily class load.

This morning she had rolled out of bed at 9 A.M found out about the murders, and instead of going to class, went straight to the studio. She’d been there for over an hour and a half and had done little more than pour coffee and scribble notes for Stein. She was sitting at her little desk outside of Stein’s office when the mailman came by and dropped a bundle of letters on her desk. One of her daily tasks was to open and sort her boss’s mail.

She pulled the rubber band off the stack and grabbed a large manila envelope from the bottom.

It was addressed to Stein but contained no return address. She grabbed her letter opener, sliced through the top of the envelope, and pulled out the sheets of paper. After reading the first paragraph, her heart began to race. She started to read again from the top, and this time her hands began to tremble. She took a deep breath and read on. After finishing, she jumped up and threw open the door to Stein’s office.

Ryan yelled his name and held the sheets of paper up in the air.

“Mark!”

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Stein, who was on the phone, looked up and waved her away. He swiveled in his chair and turned his back to her. He was talking to his boss in New York. “Carol, I need more video crews, damn it! I need more reporters. How in the hell do you expect me to get all this footage for you? It’s a goddamned zoo down here. We’re falling all over each other trying to get the story. It’s too big, we need more people!”

Bridgett walked around his desk and waved the envelope in his face.

Stein pulled the phone away from his head and placed his free hand over the receiver.

“Bridgett, I’m busy! Not now!” Stein started to bring the phone back to his head, but

Ryan was not to be deterred.

“Mark, this is really important!” She thrust the papers and envelope forward. “We just got this in the mail. It’s addressed to you and I think it’s from the terrorists!” Stein grabbed the sheets of paper and started reading quickly. His boss could be heard in the background asking what in the hell was going on. When Stein was finished, he yelled into the receiver, “Carol, go to your fax, this is big!” Garret had calmed down and was noticeably quieter.

McMahon and Kennedy were discussing the latter’s theory when the door to the

Cabinet Room opened and Jack Lortch entered.

He was the special agent in charge of the President’s Secret Service detail. “Excuse me, gentlemen, NBC is announcing that they have a letter from a group claiming responsibility for the murders.” Lortch proceeded to the wall behind the President and opened a large cabinet containing a bank of six television sets. He turned on the four to the left, which were pretuned to the major networks and CNN. The top right TV was carrying the NBC signal. He turned up the volume and stepped away. The familiar face of George Blake, the NBC news anchor, appeared on the screen.

“I would like to caution you one more time that this letter is from a group that is claiming responsibility for the murders of Senator Fitzgerald, Senator Downs, and

Congressman Koslowski. We have no proof that they are actually the group that committed the murders. The letter was received by mail at our Washington, D.C studio just moments ago.

It states the following.” Blake looked down and read from the fax paper: “‘In 1776 the founders of the United States of America sent a Declaration of Independence to the King of England. In that Declaration, Thomas Jefferson wrote “That whenever any Form of

Government becomes destructive. it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government.” We are invoking this right to rise up and alter the course of our government.

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You have had your chance to correct America’s course, and you have failed. “‘Senator

Fitzgerald, Congressman Koslowski, and Senator Downs were killed as a warning to the

President and the remaining members of the House and Senate. Your days of deficit spending and partisan politics are over. During the last twenty-five years, you have spent money we do not have on Federal programs we do not need. Every year you have promised the American people that your number one priority is to cut spending and balance the budget. Despite these promises the Federal budget has continued to grow.

“‘You have had the time and the opportunity to bring spending under control and you have done nothing. You have shown that your own personal greed and the goals of your political parties are more important to you than the economic security and future of

America. As a result of your selfish and incompetent leadership, we are now burdened with a national debt that is more than five trillion dollars.

A national debt that is growing at a rate of more than a billion dollars a day and is projected to reach ten trillion dollars by the end of the century. If the national debt is not confronted, it will plunge our country into economic chaos.

“‘The time to act is now. We are directing the President to withdraw his budget that is before the House, and with the help of the Office of Management and Budget and the

General Accounting Office, to construct a balanced budget using zero-based budgeting.

This budget will contain no new or raised taxes and will cut all unneeded Federal programs. It will introduce means testing to control the growth of Social Security and

Medicare and will adopt the military cuts as proposed by the Joint Chiefs without political interference. After this budget is passed, the President will submit a national crime bill that will focus on keeping violent criminals off the streets and in jail. The

President, the House, and the Senate shall also implement a two percent national sales tax to be used solely for the reduction of the national debt.

“‘If you are incapable of restoring the limited form of government that the framers of the Constitution intended, quit and go home. We will be watching your actions closely.

This is the only warning we will give.

If you do not respond to these demands, you will be killed. None of you are out of our reach-not even the President.”” As THE NEWS ANCHOR SPOKE THE WORDS

“NONE OF YOU ARE OUT OF OUR reach, not even the President,” all eyes in the room turned from the TV to President Stevens… all eyes except those of Special Agent

McMahon. McMahon had turned away from the group and was clutching his digital phone, waiting for someone to answer on the other end. “Special Agent Jennings.”

“Kathy, this is Skip. Get someone down to NBC’s studio on the double.

Call ahead and tell them we’re coming to seize that letter as evidence, and until we get there, I don’t want anyone touching it. I’m sure half their damn newsroom has already put their fingerprints all over it.”

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“I’ve already got Phillips and Reynolds on their way over, and Troy is on the phone trying to get ahold of whoever is in charge.”

“Good.” McMahon paused for a second. “Listen, let’s gamble on the chance that they sent more than one of these. Call the post office and find out when the other networks and major papers get their mail delivered. Send some people over to CBS, ABC, and CNN.

Hopefully we can get our hands on one of these before it’s been opened.”

“Anything else?”

“No, call me if you find anything out. I’m on my way back to the office.” McMahon hit the end button on the phone, placed it in his pocket, and spun back around. “What was that all about?” asked the President. “Just trying to see if we can get a hold of one of these letters before it has a dozen different sets of fingerprints on it.”

“Can we take this seriously? I mean, isn’t it quite possible that someone sent this trying to take responsibility for the murders even though they didn’t commit them?

Doesn’t that type of thing happen all the time in these cases?” The President was visibly shaken by the letter and more precisely the mention of his office. “Yes, sir, it’s quite common to get letters and phone calls from groups who did not perpetrate the crime, but not this early. It usually starts days or weeks later.

These murders were committed less than eight hours ago.” Garret, trying to reassert himself after being embarrassed by McMahon earlier, jumped to his boss’s side. “That doesn’t mean that someone couldn’t have written that letter and dropped it off this morning, after hearing about the killings. I mean, Mr. McMahon, we have to keep our minds open about this.” McMahon desperately wanted to get up and leave. He needed to be back at the Hoover Building running this investigation.

“Mr. Garret, anything is possible at this point.” McMahon turned to the President to ask permission to leave, but before he could do so, Garret blurted out another question.

“How do we know it’s not meant to confuse us? Maybe someone killed them for a different reason, like wanting to scuttle the President’s budget or wanting to damage this

Presidency. Maybe they sent this letter to make us look in the wrong places.” McMahon glared at Garret for a brief moment and told himself to keep his temper in check.

“Mr. Garret, we know very little so far. That is why we need to investigate. I will take all of your theories under advisement and keep an open mind.” McMahon turned from

Garret to the President.

“Sir, if you don’t mind, I really need to be out in the field coordinating this investigation.”

“Why … yes … of course.” McMahon leaned over, whispered in Roach’s ear, then rose and left the room.

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The small conference room in Congressman O’Rourke’s office contained the same furniture it had when O’Rourke had taken over the previous year.

O’Rourke saw no sense in following the age-old Washington tradition of getting rid of perfectly good furniture and buying new stuff at the taxpayers’ expense. O’Rourke, his brother Tim, Susan, and several staffers were sitting around the color TV watching

George Blake continue to read the letter sent by the group claiming responsibility for the murders of Koslowski, Fitzgerald, and Downs. O’Rourke sat without movement or emotion, staring at the TV, while the others shouted comments back and forth. His hands were pressed together in front of his face, forming a triangle. After Blake read the letter for the fourth time, Nick Swenson, one of O’Rourke’s young staffers, turned to his boss.

“Well, Michael, you don’t have to worry about them killing you. It sounds like they’re right up your alley.” O’Rourke glanced over at the blond-haired Swenson with a neutral expression.

Inside, however, O’Rourke was far from emotionless. Tim O’Rourke looked at his brother from across the table. “Michael, what do you think about all of this?”

O’Rourke slowly brought his hands down. “I don’t think our country will miss the likes of Fitzgerald, Downs, and Koslowski.”

Tim frowned and said, “Michael, that may well be true, but please don’t say that in public. They were Senators and Congressman, and no matter what you think of their politics, you can’t go around saying they deserved to die.”

“I didn’t say they deserved to die. I only said they won’t be missed.”

“The press won’t bother to make that distinction. They’ll put on the front page of every newspaper, ‘Congressman O’Rourke Says Koslowski, Downs and Fitzgerald

Deserved to Die!’” Tim held his hand up and punctuated every word. “I don’t care what the press does.”

“I know you don’t care what they do, Michael, but there are other people in this office who care about their careers and their future in politics.” Michael leaned in a little closer to his brother and in a lower voice said, “I’m not entirely comfortable with assassins running around our capital, but if it takes killing a couple of corrupt dinosaurs like

Koslowski, Fitzgerald, and Downs to bring about some change, I’m all for it.” Tim

O’Rourke sat back and frowned at his older brother. The source of Michael’s severe dislike for the political hierarchy of Washington was deeply rooted. Ten years earlier, when Michael was a senior at the University of Minnesota, his life couldn’t have been better. He was captain of the nationally ranked hockey team, he had a great group of friends, a wonderful girlfriend, and he was on schedule to complete his history major.

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There wasn’t a gray cloud in Michael O’Rourke’s life.

Michael was about to learn, not for the first time, just how quickly life could change.

On a cold winter night, after one of his hockey games, his parents loaded two of

Michael’s three brothers and his little sister into the family Suburban and started their two-hour drive back to the O’Rourkes’ hometown of Grand Rapids in northern Minnesota.

About forty minutes from Grand Rapids, the large Suburban was hit head-on by a drunk driver who couldn’t keep his car on the other side of the yellow line. Michael’s sister, Katie, and his brothers Tommy and little Seamus survived the accident, but his parents didn’t. The loving parents of five children were dead-killed by a thirty-four-year-old man with six previous drunk-driving convictions.

The deaths of his parents shattered O’Rourke’s life. After graduating in the spring he joined the Marine Corps as his father and grandfather had done before him. After returning from the Gulf, he blew his knee out on a low-altitude nighttime training jump with his teton platoon.

Several of the lines on his main chute fouled, and with no time to pop the backup, O’Rourke thudded to the ground at, twice the normal speed.

The same knee he had injured in college buckled under the impact and crunched like an aluminum can. The young lieutenant underwent a complete reconstruction of his knee, and his career as a United States Marine was effectively ended. O’Rourke left the service and joined Senator Olson’s staff in Washington. Senator Erik Olson was a close friend of

Michael’s deceased parents. Michael looked at Washington through idealistic eyes and saw the new job as an opportunity to do something that would make a difference. Over the next five years Michael became one of the Senator’s most effective aides. He worked hard and fought not to fall into the trap of Washington apathy, but as time progressed, the behind-the-back dealings of the nation’s power brokers wore him down. Washington politics was a disgusting game that only a certain breed could play. Anyone with honor and integrity was worn down and spit out by the political machine of party politics.

Right about the time Michael was ready to quit and head back to Minnesota the congressional seat in his home district opened. Senator Olson encouraged him to run, telling him if the system really bothered him so much, he should try to do something about it. Michael took on the challenge, and with the backing of his grandfather and

Senator Olson, the young O’Rourke won the barely contested seat easily. That winter, before Michael had taken office, tragedy struck again. The death of another person close to him had forced O’Rourke to look at Washington in a different light, and any joy he felt over his recent victory vanished.

His two-year term as a freshman Congressman became a two-year sentence in a town he despised more and more every day. The phone started to ring, and Susan got up to get it. A moment later she poked her head back in the room. “Michael, your grandfather is on line one.”

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“I’ll take it in my office.” Michael walked back to his office and grabbed the phone.

“Hello, Seamus.” Seamus O’Rourke was the President and sole owner of the

O’Rourke Timber Company. Seamus’s father had started the company as a small lumberyard in 1918. When Seamus returned from fighting in World War II, he took over the company and turned the small mill into one of the largest timber companies in the

Midwest. Seamus was calling from the deck of the O’Rourkes’ home in Grand Rapids. It was located on Lake Pokegama, a beautiful island-dotted lake almost ten miles long.

The home was a gorgeous, modern log cabin set on the tip of a point that overlooked the largest bay on the lake. The seventy-two-year-old grandfather clutched the phone and took in the panoramic view of the sky blue lake and the bright fall colors. “Is everything all right, Michael?”

“Yes, everything’s fine.” Seamus leaned on the railing of the deck.

Grandpa O’Rourke didn’t look a day over sixty. He walked three miles every morning with his band of dogs, which included two Labs, a husky, and several others of mixed origin. The early-morning walks with his dogs weren’t the only thing that kept him looking young. Ten years earlier, the unfortunate death of his son and daughter-in-law had turned him into the de facto father of a twelve-year-old girl, two sixteen year-old twin boys, and Michael and Tim, who were in college at the time. Seamus took a drink of coffee and asked, “What do you think of the assassinations?”

Michael tapped a pencil on his desk calendar while he struggled to phrase his answer properly. “I’m torn. Part of me thinks it’s exactly what we need, and part of me is very uneasy about it.”

“I think that’s understandable,” replied Seamus in his deep voice.

“What did you think of the men that were killed?”

“I don’t think the founders of democracy would be sad to see them relinquish their seats of power.”

Seamus laughed slightly. “That’s for certain.” Michael spun his chair around and looked out the window. He could see the Washington Monument jutting upward in the distance. “Seamus,” Michael said uncomfortably.

“There is something I need to talk to you about. Are you still planning on coming to town this weekend?”

“Yes.” Seamus detected something.

“What’s wrong?”

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“I’m not sure. It might have something to do with what happened last night.” Michael hesitated briefly. “I think it would be best if we talked about it in person.” Seamus got the point instantly.

In Washington it was best to assume that anything said over the phone was potentially being recorded by God only knew whom. “Can you give me a hint as to what it’s about?”

Michael rocked back and forth in his chair.

“It involves a mutual friend of ours.” Back in Minnesota Seamus squinted at a fishing boat that was cutting across the entrance to the bay. The old man knew immediately whom Michael was talking about. “I see. Keep it under your hat until I get into town.”

“All right.”

“I’ll see you in a couple days.”

“Are you flying your plane?”

“Yes.”

“Call me and let me know when you’ll be landing.”

“I will. Say hello to Tim and Liz for me.”

“Will do.” Michael hung up the phone and thought about the individual he and

Seamus had just alluded to. He definitely has the motive, Michael thought to himself. The motive and the ability. News of the letter swept across the country. The real life drama that was unfolding in the nation’s capital had seized the attention of every American.

The President sat in his high-backed leather chair, staring out the windows behind his desk in the Oval Office. He had been sitting in this position for the last ten minutes and had not moved a muscle. He was pondering the isolation of his office. Thinking about the hard fact that he, the President of the United States, knew no more about what was going on than anyone else in the country. He thought of how short his budget victory had been.

Today was supposed to be a day of celebration, a day when he could bask in front of the cameras and take another crucial step toward a second term. Instead, the unthinkable had occurred. His budget would never be passed without Jack Koslowski, and whoever was responsible for the killings was threatening his life as well. He thought about the possibility of these murderers getting near him and came to the comforting conclusion that they could not-not with all the Secret Service agents and modern technology that surrounded him. He knew he would have to address the nation, but had no idea what to say. It was almost two in the afternoon, and Stevens had yet to stop and think about the deaths of his former colleagues or the loved ones they had left behind. He was immersed in himself and how the events of the day would affect his career, his place in history. In

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the hallway outside the Oval Office, Ann Moncur was waiting to get in and see the

President. If you wanted to have a meeting with the President, you had to go through his chief of staff, and Moncur was sick of going through Garret. The media was all over her, wanting a response from the White House on the killings. Everyone assumed the

President would be addressing the nation, and she needed to let the press know when. Stu

Garret came rumbling around the corner with Mike Nance and the White House communications director, Ted Hopkinson. Hopkinson’s unofficial title was spin doctor.

With the help of Garret, he’d taken over most of Moncur’s responsibilities. Garret had to keep the feminists happy and let them think Moncur was important. So he gave

Moncur the title and let her brief the media on the day-to-day events at the White House, but that was as far as it went. All the strategy planning, intentional leaks to the media, opinion-poll analysis, and one-on-ones with the President were handled by Hopkinson.

Moncur stepped in front of Garret and blocked his entrance to the Oval Office. She had brooded all night about the way he’d treated her the day before and decided she wasn’t going to take it anymore. In a firm voice she said, “Stu, I need to see him.”

“Not now, Ann, we’re really busy.” Garret went to step around her and she moved in front of him. “Stu, I’ve got the media all over my case.

They want to know when he’s going to address the nation.”

“I will let you know as soon as we decide,” snapped Garret. “Is that what you guys are going to talk about in there … his speech, the media strategy? I should be included.”

Moncur paused and Garret looked away, shaking his head no.

“I’m sick of you cutting me out of the loop, Stu. I’m the White House press secretary, not him.” Moncur pointed her finger at Hopkinson. “I should be involved in this.” Garret grabbed her arm and pushed her to the side, sticking his face directly in front of her.

“Ann, I don’t need this shit right now. We’ve got a crisis on our hands. Go to your office, and I’ll let you know what time he will be addressing the nation as soon as we get out of this meeting. Now get the hell out of my way.” Garret turned and entered the office with

Nance and Hopkinson behind him. The President heard the door open and spun around in his chair. Garret threw his arms up in the air. “How could this day get any worse? We’ve been busting our asses trying to get that budget passed, and just when we’re in the clear, we get the rug pulled out from under us.” Garret pointed toward the door. “And now I’ve got every clown and his brother trying to pick a fight with me. This morning it was that idiot from the FBI, and now it’s that joke we call a press secretary.” The President stood from behind his desk and walked over to join the others in front of the fireplace. He sat in a chair with its back to the fireplace, and Garret sat by himself on the couch to Stevens’s left, while Nance and Hopkinson sat on the other couch to the right. “Gentlemen, what have you decided?” asked the President. “Well, we’ve picked a time. We’re going to have you address the nation at eight this evening. That way we’ll get maximum exposure.”

Garret paused for a moment and looked at Nance and Hopkinson.

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“And it will give us some time to try and catch our breath and figure out what in the hell is going on. Right now, my gut reaction is that we come out hard and denounce these assassinations as a direct threat to the national security of the United States of America and label whoever sent the letter as terrorists. “We have to start spinning this thing and get control of it. The media is all over the board right now.” Garret looked down at his yellow notepad. “Ted has had people watching the broadcasts all morning, and the media is referring to the people that sent this letter as everything from assassins to terrorists to revolutionaries to murderers to perpetrators. We have to figure out if there’s a way we can use this to our advantage and then lead the media on the story. We have to grab a hold of this thing and squash any public support there may be for this list of demands. We can’t have these guys being seen as revolutionaries.” Garret paused for a moment and shook his head in frustration. “The nut-bags on talk radio are calling in and saying it’s about time someone got serious about running this country and got rid of scumbags like

Fitzgerald. I think we’ve got to nail this thing down while we still can, and your speech to the nation will be our first chance.” Garret leaned forward. “Jim, if you can come out looking good and strong tonight, it would be a big bonus in light of the setbacks we’re going to suffer over the loss of Koslowski. Every single person in this country will be watching you tonight, looking for guidance.” Garret leaned back. “Now, Mike and Ted differ with me a little. Ted, as usual, wants to wait until we get some polls back to decide exactly how firm we should be on this, and Mike also wants to move cautiously.” The

President turned away from Garret and looked at Nance. Cautious was a word that was very appealing to him right now.

“What did you have in mind, Mike?”

“Well, sir, I think it would be prudent to wait until we receive a little more information from our intelligence assets before we take a hard line. At this point, we have three dead politicians who seem to have been killed by a group that wants to pressure you and Congress into making some radical reforms.

This whole thing could be that simple, or it could be a hundred times more complicated. We don’t know if this letter is for real. The people behind it may want it to look like a simple revolution, but in reality they may have different motives.” Nance leaned forward in his chair and closer to the President. “Don’t you think the timing on this is a little strange? Today was supposed to be the day your budget was to pass through the

House. Everyone knew if you succeeded, your chances for reelection would be greatly improved. What if someone didn’t want you reelected, or someone wanted to be President and decided the first thing they had to do was scuttle your chances for reelection?” Nance was trying to accomplish two things by intentionally confusing the President. First, he honestly did not like rushing into a complicated situation and taking a hard line without knowing all the facts. Too many times in his career he had had to clean up a mess after people had taken an uninformed stance on an issue, only to find out later they had chosen the wrong side. The other reason Nance wanted to keep Stevens unsure was because as long as the President was confused, he would continue to seek counsel from his national security adviser. “Mr. President, it is an unnecessary risk to come out and commit to a stance immediately. Do you remember when the USS Vincennes shot down the Iranian

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Airbus? President Reagan got on national television and told the world that the

Vincennes was under attack by Iranian gunboats when it fired on the Airbus. He took a firm position that it was the Iranians’ fault. He painted himself into a corner and spent months trying to defend the wrong side of the argument. Our side screwed up and killed three hundred innocent people.

We ended up looking like fools. Now, obviously, this situation is different, but all I’m asking is that we wait until the FBI provides us with some reliable information.” Nance continued to speak in his even, non-confrontational tone. “Then we can formulate a coherent plan of action …. Besides, thinking we can quash this thing right now is like thinking we can turn back a tidal wave. The public’s distrust of politicians is at an all-time high. The demands listed in that letter are exactly what voters have been screaming for. If we’re going to come out winners on this, we’re going to have to be a little more crafty.”

Hopkinson was shaking his head in agreement, but instead of addressing the

President, he looked at Garret. “I agree. I would also like to wait until we get some of the results from these public opinion polls.

It makes no sense to rush into this until we know exactly where we stand.

Besides, I think Mike is right. This thing is like a tidal wave coming towards shore, and the smart thing to do is to get the hell out of the way and sit the storm out.” Garret leaned back and tapped his fingers on the side table next to the couch as his crossed leg bounced up and down.

The President, Nance, and Hopkinson were used to Garret’s mulling over an idea.

After a full minute of silence, the President became impatient and asked, “Stu, what do you think?” Garret chattered his teeth several times and responded, “All right, you guys win. For tonight’s address we’ll play it safe. We’ll go with somber and mournful.” Garret jotted down a note to himself on his yellow notepad.

“You can talk about the grief you feel over the loss of these good friends. We’ll make it seem real personal. You can list some of their achievements and talk them up as real heroes of democracy.”

“Let’s not build them up too much,” Nance said cautiously. “One of our deceased friends has quite a few skeletons in his closet that could come back to haunt us. Let the press make the first move on that one ….

Let’s just state the obvious and say these assassinations are a threat to our national security, and then you can make some comments about how these men gave their entire lives to the service of their country.

Most importantly, we should keep it short.”

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Garret shook his head in agreement. “You’re right. These guys are dead now. We don’t owe them any more favors. If the press wants to turn them into martyrs, we can wait and jump on that bandwagon during the funerals next week.” Everyone nodded his head in agreement while Garret continued writing himself a note. When he was finished, he looked up at Hopkinson.

“Ted, why don’t you go tell Moncur what time we will be addressing the nation and get the speechwriters focused on the issues we’ve discussed.

When I’m finished, I’ll stop by your office to work on the details.”

Hopkinson stood and started for the door. As soon as he was gone, Garret leaned forward and spoke in a low tone. “I am really pissed off with the way that meeting went this morning, and not just because that no-name agent got in my face. I’m pissed because here we are in the middle of a crisis and we can’t even trust the very people we are dependent on to give us information. Now, I don’t want to go back and rehash why Roach and Stansfield weren’t replaced when we took office.

“We all know why they weren’t, and we were all in agreement at the time. ”

“In light of our difficulties in getting the cabinet confirmed, the right thing to do was leave them in charge of the FBI and the CIA.”

Garret’s balding, skinny head shook and his cheeks tensed. “Now, here we are in the middle of a major crisis, and I don’t trust either one of them as far as I can throw them.

What are we going to do about it?”

The President considered the question and answered, “Well, neither of them is willing to resign, and considering the crisis we’re confronted with, I think trying to force them out would be unwise.”

Nance sat still while both men looked to him for his opinion. He was the professional spook of the group, having spent most of his early years working for Army intelligence and then moving on to the National Security Agency. He had a sharp mind and was good at putting things in motion. The idea for blackmailing Congressman Moore had been his.

“If you’re serious about getting rid of them,” Nance finally responded, “you’ll have to do it through public pressure and pressure from the Hill. They have to be embarrassed into leaving their jobs.” He paused for a moment, his mind calculating the next move. “The pressure to solve these murders will rest solely on the shoulders of the FBI. If Roach doesn’t make progress on the case, it will be very easy to turn the dogs loose on him.”

Nance held a finger up in the air. “And I have some ideas on how we may be able to speed up the process.”

The SUN WAS DROPPING OVER the WESTERN HORIZON, AND DROPPING

with it was the temperature. O’Rourke walked down the street with his hands in his pockets. He was wearing a pair of jeans, a flannel shirt, and a dark brown leather jacket.

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His left hand was wrapped around the handle of a .45-caliber Combatmaster made by

Detonics. The palm-sized pistol packed a huge punch. As a Congressman, O’Rourke had obtained a special permit to carry the weapon. He wasn’t carrying the gun just because of the recent assassinations. He had started carrying it several years ago to protect himself against the roving packs of gang-bangers that roamed the streets of D.C. O’Rourke had been a bone-crushing defenseman for the University of Minnesota hockey team. With his size and speed, few people toyed with him on or off the ice, but the muggers of D.C.

cared little about size. The second most traumatic event in O’Rourke’s life had proved that. The thought of his friend’s mugging caused Michael to tighten his grip around the handle of the gun. One year earlier, Michael’s best friend had been shot and killed just two blocks from the Capitol. Mark Coleman and O’Rourke worked on Senator Olson’s staff and were roommates. One night Coleman was on his way home from work when he was stopped by a twenty-two-year-old crack addict. A witness saw the shaky young man walk up to Coleman and, without saying a word, shoot him in the chest, grab his wallet, and run. The police caught the man the next day. The murderer had already been convicted of armed robbery twice but was paroled early because of a lack of space in the

D.C. jails.

O’Rourke hadn’t been concerned that his roommate didn’t come home that night.

Coleman was engaged and spent most of his evenings at his fiancжe’s apartment.

O’Rourke went into the office late the next morning.

He had just won his congressional seat the previous week and was coming in to go over some transition notes with Senator Olson. Michael entered the office with no idea that his friend had been killed. The office personnel were gathered in the reception area hugging each other and crying when Michael walked through the door. O’Rourke stood in shock while one of the secretaries told him the news. Michael looked around the room at all of the people trying to comfort one another and instinctively withdrew. He backed out of the office and left the building. When he got outside, he headed for the Mall and walked westward, passing the Smithsonian and the Washington Monument. Walking slowly, his mind flooded with memories of his friend and his parents.

After passing the Reflecting Pool, he reached the Lincoln Memorial and stopped. He stood and stared back at the Capitol for a long time.

O’Rourke stared at the large rotunda and tried to grasp how a person could be shot and killed so close to the heart of the government of the United States of America. He sat on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial staring at the Capitol, trying to make sense of a senseless death, trying to understand what was happening to America, trying to understand why someone like Mark Coleman, who had worked so hard, who lived honestly, whose whole life was ahead of him, could be snuffed out by a worthless crack addict. O’Rourke thought of all the meetings he’d sat in where fat-cat Senators and

Congressman threw around billions of tax dollars as if it were a Monopoly game-the money always going to support some special-interest group whose endorsement would be needed in the next election. When the subject of crime came up, it was talked about with enthusiasm and vigor, especially when the press was around, but behind the closed doors

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of committee meetings the politicians were always more willing to spend money on farm subsidies or defense spending than crime. The reality of life had smacked O’Rourke harshly in the face that day. He looked at Washington and knew there was no way he could make a difference. The corruption of the system had become too entrenched, and even if there were thirty other Congressman just like him, they couldn’t make a dent. The old boys controlled the committees and with that the legislative agenda and the purse strings.

O’Rourke had decided at that moment, one year earlier, as he looked at the large dome of the Capitol, that he was done with Washington. If he couldn’t make a difference, he didn’t want to be a witness and accessory to the corruption of Washington politics. The hell if he was going to stay in this town and turn into one of them. Washington was built on a swamp, and as far as Michael was concerned, it was still a swamp. As O’Rourke turned onto Wisconsin Avenue, his mind returned to the present. He noted for the first time since taking office that real change might be possible. The shocking assassination of three of Washington’s most prominent political animals was sure to force reform to the forefront.

O’Rourke walked across the street to Blacky’s Bar and entered.

Glancing over the crowd, he looked for a full head of black hair, and after two sweeps he found her. She was sitting at the far end of the bar surrounded by a group of men still in suits. The sight of her brought a smile to his face. An attractive woman walked up and grabbed O’Rourke’s arm. “Michael, you’re late. You’d better get over there and save her.

The vultures are closing in. O’Rourke continued to stare across the bar. “Yes, I see that.” He looked down and kissed the woman on the cheek. “Hello, Meredith, is she ready to kill me?”

“Michael, you could show up at midnight and she wouldn’t be mad. May I take your coat?”

O’Rourke remembered he was carrying his gun and politely said, “No, thank you.”

“Were things pretty tense on the Hill today?”

“Yeah, there was a lot of extra security.”

“Well, you be careful.” The owner squeezed his arm. “Get over there and save her.

I’ve got a booth ready for you, whenever you’re ready.”

O’Rourke weaved his way through the crowd and stood behind the pack of cruisers salivating over his girlfriend. He took a deep breath and watched for a moment. O’Rourke placed his hands on the shoulders of the two men closest to him. “Excuse me, gentlemen.”

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The two men turned around and made some room. Liz was wearing a white blouse, short black skirt, black nylons, and black suede heels. A smile spread across O’Rourke’s face, and he stepped forward to kiss her on the lips. Then brushing his nose along her cheek, he whispered, “You look great.” She smiled, wrapped her arms around his waist, and pulled him closer for another kiss. After several moments, O’Rourke grabbed her by the hand and said, “Meredith has our table ready. Let’s go be alone.”

The couple walked over to the open booth and sat down across from each other.

O’Rourke grabbed her hands and stared at her. He loved her eyes.

He loved everything about her. her thick, black hair, her olive skin, her sharp mind, her great sense of humor, but he especially loved her eyes. Despite his bad attitude toward Washington she had managed to work her way into his heart. Liz was bright, she was aggressive, she was caring, she loved kids. She was everything he wanted. Liz

Scarlatti had entered his life a year ago, and even though the last thing he wanted was a relationship, he couldn’t resist her. They had met at a small blues bar in Georgetown. It was a busy weekend night and they happened to be standing next to each other when the band struck up a sultry version of “Sweet Melissa” by the Allman Brothers.

The female lead of the band sang it in a slow, seductive way that brought the entire crowd into a rhythmic sway. Standing by the edge of the dance floor, O’Rourke bumped a little too hard into whomever he was standing next to, and when he turned to apologize, there was Liz. The apology never got out of his mouth. He stared in awe at what he had no doubt was the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on. His face was frozen, eyes open wide, lips parted slightly. Liz looked up at him with her big brown eyes, and that was it. O’Rourke felt his heart sink into his stomach, and he couldn’t move. Luckily for him Liz didn’t freeze. She slowly took the beer out of Michael’s hand, set it on a ledge, and then grabbing him by the hand, she led him onto the dance floor. The rest was history. Over the next year their attraction grew into a serious love affair with marriage on the horizon. There was only one problem at present—Michael wanted out of D.C. and

Liz wasn’t sure yet. She liked her job less and less every week, but hadn’t grown to hate it yet. She had worked hard to get where she was and wasn’t quite sure she was ready to give it up and move to Minnesota.

Scarlatti smiled at O’Rourke and asked, “So, did you see me on TV yesterday?” The smile disappeared from O’Rourke’s mouth.

“What was that all about? You know how much I hate publicity.”

O’Rourke changed his voice and started to mimic her, “‘Mr. President, Congressman

O’Rourke says your budget is stuffed with more pork than a Jimmy Dean sausage.” Come on, Liz, I had reporters calling my office all afternoon.” O’Rourke had been mad as hell yesterday when he saw her get up at the press conference and quote him, but now, sitting in front of her, all that anger was gone. “Well, I’m sorry, Michael, you’re a public figure, and what you say is news.”

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“First of all, I’m not eligible, and I have no control over what some flighty gossip columnist writes. With you, that’s a different story.

All I’m asking is that in the future we keep our relationship a little more private. What is said when we’re in bed together stays between you and me.” Scarlatti leaned forward.

“If that’s what you really want, I will respect it, but I’ll never understand your aversion to the press. You’re the only politician I know who consciously tries to stay out of the limelight.”

“Liz, we’ve been over this before. Let’s not go over it again.”

Michael gave her a forced smile and then said, “By the way, congratulations! You looked very good yesterday. You were the only one who challenged him.

The rest of those pansies rolled over and gave him nice, easy questions.”

“That’s why they get called on. Those press conferences are the biggest scams. The

President calls on the same people every time because he knows they’ll toss him a nice big fat one.” The President was sitting behind his desk in the Oval Office wearing a dark suit, striped tie, and white shirt.

Pieces of Kleenex were stuffed between his collar and neck as a woman stood over him and applied makeup to his face. Stu Garret loomed over the other shoulder and read off a list of last-minute reminders. Ted Hopkinson was in the midst of a final check to see that everything was in place. In five minutes they would be live in front of the nation.

Garret waved away the woman who was doing the makeup. “That’s enough.

He looks fine! … Now, Jim. remember, start out looking somber.

We want to show them that you’re in pain. Stay kind of slouched over during the first part, like you did during the last rehearsal. When we get to the last part, about democracy and the founders of this country, I want you to become more stiff and rigid. Sit up straight, but don’t pound your fist on the desk like you did during the last rehearsal. It comes off a little too strong. Just stick with your old standby. Pull that arm in tight and shake your fist at the camera. Not too fast.

Shake it slow and deliberately, like you’re emphasizing every word.”

Garret mimicked the move. Hopkinson approached and pulled the Kleenex out from under the President’s collar. “Sir, you know the routine.

Please don’t touch your face, your shirt, or your tie. The makeup will smear and we’re going to be live in minutes.” Scarlatti and O’Rourke were glancing at their menus, and discussing the assassinations, when the subdued roar of the Friday-night crowd dropped to a hushed silence.

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When they looked up, the President’s face was on every TV in the bar.

Several people made sarcastic remarks and were shouted down by the other patrons.

The President started to speak. “Good evening. I will be very brief and to the point tonight. It is with deep sorrow that I come to you, to discuss a great loss to our nation. the tragic deaths of Congressman Koslowski, Senator Fitzgerald, and Senator Downs ….

These three great statesmen have given over eighty years of service to the people of

America. During that time, they fought with passion for the things they believed in:

freedom, democracy, and the welfare of every man, woman, and child in America. Their careers were long and illustrious. Between them, they authored hundreds of bills that have helped make America a better place to live and work. Their leadership, guidance, and wisdom will be greatly missed in the hallowed halls of Congress, and I will greatly miss their friendship.” The President looked down for a moment and paused. “I would ask all of you, my fellow Americans, to keep Congressman Koslowski, Senator

Fitzgerald, Senator Downs, and their families in your prayers. They were not perfect;

none of us are. Yet they overcame their imperfections and gave everything they had to their country and their fellow countrymen.

For this, we will always be indebted to them.” The President paused again, his face drawn, staring into the camera. “We, in the nation’s capital, are in shock over the senseless, violent murders that were committed this morning. We are a very close group.

Many of us have worked beside each other for decades.

I, myself, have known Congressman Koslowski, Senator Fitzgerald, and Senator

Downs for over thirty years. I have met their wives and children. I have watched their children grow up, get married, and have children of their own. It is extremely painful for us to see three men, who have given so much, struck down in one senseless flurry of violence.” Again, the President looked down and paused for a moment.

When he looked back up, he picked up a piece of paper and held it up to the camera.

“Many of you are aware of this letter that was received by the media today. The FBI has informed me there is a very good chance this letter is from the group that committed the murders of Congressman Koslowski, Senator Fitzgerald, and Senator Downs. The FBI

also believes there is a very good chance this letter was sent as a piece of disinformation, sent to lead the investigation in the wrong direction.

Due to the investigation taking place, I cannot expand on this any further. All I can say for now is that FBI director Roach has assured me that the terrorists who killed these defenseless men will be caught and brought to justice.” The President waved the letter in the air and sat more upright. “The people who committed this crime represent the antithesis of democracy. They represent tyranny. What happened this morning was not just the murder of three important politicians. It was an attack on the United States of

America. It was an assault on the ideals of democracy. Our country was founded by men and women who fled the tyranny of monarchies and dictatorships from all over the world.

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They made America a place where everyone could have a say in how the country was run: a government for the people, by the people, and of the people. Over the years, we have fought in countless wars defending freedom and democracy. Millions of American men and women have died so that we could continue to live free, to have a say in how our government works, so that democracy could flourish!” The President became more animated. “The cruel and inhumane murders that were perpetrated this morning represent what those millions of Americans died fighting against. They were acts of tyranny, the harsh, violent, and forceful rule of the few over the many. Democracy and diversity have made America great. We are great because everyone has had a say, not because a militant few have shoved their beliefs and ideals down the throats of the rest of the country. Even if the demands of this letter were genuine, which we do not think they are, I could not accept them. If you, the American people, want to make changes in the way your government is run, those changes must take place in a peaceful and democratic way.

They must take place within our current legislative and legal system. You have chosen me to be your President, and I have taken an oath to uphold the laws of this land and to protect the national security of America.

“The people who committed these crimes are terrorists and cowards. I will continue the policy of my predecessors. I will not deal with terrorists. The FBI, along with the cooperation of our other law enforcement and intelligence agencies, will hunt these animals down and put them behind bars. Many Americans have died fighting for democracy. Congressman Koslowski, Senator Fitzgerald, and Senator Downs are three more names that will be added to that long and noble list. They were patriots who not only believed in democracy and freedom, who not only lived and enjoyed the fruits of democracy and freedom, they were men who fought for democracy and freedom so the rest of us could enjoy it. “The deaths of these three great Americans are a tragedy and loss to our entire nation, but America is a country that has suffered many losses in her long and glorious battle to sustain freedom.

Throughout our history we have been faced with great trials and tribulations. We have, as a nation, always risen above these obstacles and emerged stronger! Next week, we will, as a nation, bury these three honorable men. We will mourn their deaths as a country, and then we will do as they would have wished.” The President picked his right hand off the desk and clenched his fist. Continuing to speak, he slowly thrust it forward, toward the camera. “America and democracy are too big and good to be brought down by tyranny. We will push on, we will persevere, we will overcome!” There was a long pause as he continued to stare into the camera and let the words he’d spoken hang, and then in closing he said, “Good night, and may God bless each of you.”

The PRESIDENT CONTINUED TO STARE INTO THE CAMERA UNTIL

HOPKINSON stepped in and pulled him out of his chair. “Sir, all of these mikes are still live, and the camera is sending out a feed.” The President nodded, knowing what his communications director was implying. The previous year Stevens had told several off—

color jokes following his Saturday-afternoon radio address. He thought the microphones had been turned off, but they weren’t. The press had .jumped all over him, but since the

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jokes were actually funny, the damage was minor. Hopkinson and Garret were always on the alert to prevent a similar mistake.

Garret walked over and said, “Come on, gentlemen, let’s go to my office.” He shook his head toward the door, and the President and Hopkinson followed. When they entered

Garret’s office, the President turned to Hopkinson and asked, “How did I look?”

“You looked fine, sir.”

“Did it look genuine and heartfelt?”

“I thought so, but we’ll know more in about an hour. I’ve got a polling group calling five hundred homes right now to try and get an early read on what the public thinks.” Stu

Garret sat down behind his desk, shoved a cigarette in his mouth, and turned on the little brown smoke-eater next to his ashtray. After taking a deep drag, he pulled the cigarette away from his lips and started to speak, his lungs still filled with smoke. “You did a nice job, Jim. If we handle this thing right, I think we’re going to see a big jump in your approval ratings.”

Smoke started to seep out of Garret’s nose, and he tilted his head back, exhaling a deep gray cloud toward the ceiling. “There’s nothing like the exposure you get from a crisis.”

Back in Blacky’s, the roar of conversation had returned as the patrons discussed the events of the day and the President’s speech. O’Rourke was intentionally keeping his mouth shut as Scarlatti stared at him. He looked over the top of his menu at her big brown eyes. “Michael, you know I’m dying to hear what you have to say about this whole thing.”

“About what?” Scarlatti pulled the menu out of his hands. “Don’t play coy with me, Michael, I’m serious. I really want to know what you think about this. I mean, it isn’t every day two Senators and a Congressman get assassinated.”

Michael thought about sugarcoating his comment and then opted for the direct approach. “In a nutshell, Liz, I think Koslowski, Downs, and Fitzgerald were the scum of the earth.

They represented the core of what is wrong with this town.”

“Come now, Michael, how do you really feel about them?” asked Scarlatti sarcastically. “Listen, I’m not crazy about our political leadership getting gunned down under the cover of darkness, but considering where we’re headed, I’m not so sure these assassins aren’t doing all of us a huge favor.” Scarlatti looked down and said, “I’m afraid there are a lot of people out there who would agree with you.

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Doesn’t it worry you at all as a Congressman, that these terrorists may turn the gun on you eventually?”

“No.” Michael shook his head. “There are bigger fish to fry than me. And besides, I’m not so sure they’re terrorists.”

“You don’t think they’re terrorists?” asked Liz with a quizzical expression.

“No. It’s an overused cliche, but one man’s terrorist is another man’s freedom fighter.

These guys haven’t killed any civilians.” O’Rourke paused for a second. In a voice just above a whisper he continued, “If no one else dies, and this group can bring about the changes they stated in their demands, this will be one of the best things that has happened in this country since the civil rights movement.”

“Well, from what the President just said, there’s reason to believe that letter is a fake.”

“Come on, Liz.” O’Rourke frowned. “You’re a reporter. Do you really believe a word that comes out of Stevens’s mouth? The White House is already trying to spin this thing and they don’t even know what’s going on. Those guys are sitting over there right now shitting in their pants.” O’Rourke picked up his fork and tapped it lightly on the place mat. “Today was supposed to be a big day for them. The President was going to pass his budget, but instead he wakes up and finds out that two Senators and his point man in

Congress have been assassinated.

Then he receives a letter telling him it’s time to get his act together, or he’s next. Liz, this is their worst fear, and’not just the President, all of them. They’ve played their little game of party politics for years.

Every election they say they’re going to cut all the wasteful spending, give a tax break to the middle class, and balance the budget. They say anything to get elected, and then, once they’re back in office, it’s the same old crap: more spending, no tax breaks, and more deficits.”

Scarlatti shook her head and smiled. O’Rourke looked at her and asked, “What?”

“I guess I’m just a little shocked. I would have thought that you, of all people, Mr.

Law and Order, would have been denouncing what happened today. I mean, I’m the liberal. I’m supposed to be supporting anarchy, not you.”

“This isn’t anarchy, Liz. It may be a revolt, but it’s not anarchy.”

Smiling, he said, “Besides, you’re a member of the press. You’re supposed to be neutral, remember?”

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Special Agent McMahon was sitting at the head of the table in a large conference room down the hall from his office. The room was quickly becoming the command center for the investigation. He was staring at the TV in disbelief. The President had just finished his address to the nation, and McMahon did not like what he had heard. He grabbed the phone next to him and dialed the direct line to Roach’s office. After several rings, the director answered, “Hello.”

“What in the hell was that all about?”

“I have no idea,” Roach responded flatly. “Has anyone from the Bureau told them we believe the letter is a piece of disinformation?”

“No,” sighed Roach.

“You didn’t actually promise him that we would catch these guys, did you?”

“Skip, you know better than that.”

“What in the hell is going on?

I don’t understand why in the hell he would say something like that.”

“I think I might. Why don’t you meet me in my office tomorrow morning at eight?

The President wants to see us at noon. That should give us time to go over some things.”

“I’ll be there at eight.”

“How are things going on your end?”

“So far the preliminary reports on the autopsies haven’t turned anything up, and the letters we intercepted were negative for prints.

They may find out more after they pick them apart, but I doubt it.”

“Have any of those people from the park come in to try to give us a composite of the guy they saw?”

“Yeah, we’ve got three who think they saw the perpetrator. Right now they’re in separate rooms giving their descriptions to different artists. When they’re done, we’ll bring them together and compare.”

“Good. I assume we’re taking extra precautions to make sure their names aren’t leaked?”

“As far as the press knows, there are no witnesses to any of the killings.”

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“Have we made arrangements to provide protection for them?”

“It’s already been taken care of.”

“All right, stay in touch. I’ll be here until about ten.” McMahon hung up the phone and buried his face in his hands. He didn’t move for almost five minutes. He was trying to think of a reason why the President would say the letter was a decoy. He stood and looked at the two agents sitting to his left. “Kathy and Dan, come with me.”

McMahon walked out of the room and down the hall to his office.

Special Agents Kathy Jennings and Dan Wardwell followed. When Jennings and

Wardwell entered the room, he shut the door and motioned to the couch. The two agents sat down. McMahon paced for a moment and then stopped. “I think we all agree that the letter mailed to NBC was sent by the same group that killed Koslowski, Downs, and

Fitzgerald. It’s a no-brainer. The letter was mailed before the murders took place and it names the men who were killed. Are we all in agreement?” Jennings and Wardwell nodded yes.

McMahon held up a copy of the letter. “I would like to hear your opinions on whether you think this letter is what it appears to be or if you think it is, as the President said, ‘a piece of disinformation.’” The two agents looked at each other for support, neither quite sure of the answer their boss was searching for.

Wardwell spoke first. “Who, at the Bureau, told the President they thought the letter was a piece of disinformation?”

“No one did, as far as we know, but that is not what I’m concerned about. I don’t want any of that to seep into your train of thought.

What I want to know is, based on the evidence you’ve seen, do you think this letter is a piece of disinformation?” McMahon leaned against the edge of his desk and waited for an answer. “Based on what we know, no, I don’t think this letter is a piece of disinformation,” Wardwell said.

“Why do you think it’s genuine?” McMahon asked. “You tell me why I should think otherwise.”

“That’s not the way I want you to go about this.” McMahon started to shake his head and wave his hands. “Let’s try this. Dan, I want you to assume that whoever murdered these guys had an ulterior motive.

Kathy, I want you to argue that they didn’t have an ulterior motive.

Now, Dan, if the motive for killing those three guys wasn’t to scare the politicians into doing what that letter says, then what was it?”

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There was a long silence while Wardwell pondered the question. All of the sudden he slapped his thighs with both hands. “Oh, my God. I didn’t even think about it. The

President’s budget was supposed to be passed today. You take those guys out, and the budget is dead.”

“If the motive was to derail the budget, then why kill all three of them?

Koslowski was in charge of the Appropriations Committee. All they had to do was kill him and the budget would have been dead. Why kill the two Senators?” McMahon prodded. “Well … if they wanted to cover their tracks and not make it look like they were trying to stop the budget, they would have killed more than just Koslowski.”

“Fair enough.”

McMahon paused and tapped his finger on his chin. “Assuming you’re right, why would someone take such a big risk just to stop the budget?”

“There could be a million different reasons. probably, all of them having to do with money. Maybe there was a new piece of legislation in there that was going to cost someone a whole lot of money, or maybe they had just cut funding for a program, and the people who have been receiving that money weren’t very happy about it. The budget is a huge piece of legislation. There could be over a thousand new entries in there that could drastically affect someone or some group’s finances,” Wardwell said. There was a short silence while they thought about Wardwell’s comments, and then Jennings spoke up.

“Yeah, or it could just be a group of Americans pissed off at the way these jerk-offs run the country.” McMahon turned to Jennings.

“All right, hotshot, it’s your turn.” Jennings sat forward on the couch. Her gun hung loosely in a shoulder holster under her left arm. “There are a lot of Americans out there who are sick and tired of the way these guys are running the country. Our own

Counterterrorism Department has reported an alarming rise in threats against politicians over the last eighteen months. If I were an individual who was worried about losing money because of a new piece of legislation, Fitzgerald, Koslowski, and Downs would be the last three I would kill. They were the biggest spenders on the Hill ….

Unless the President has some hard evidence that there’s an ulterior motive behind these killings, I think they’re just spewing political rhetoric.”

“Don’t you think the timing is a little strange?” McMahon asked.

“What timing? That they were killed right before the budget was supposed to be voted on?” Jennings shook her head sideways. “No, I don’t. This afternoon you told me what that Kennedy woman from the CIA had to say about these murders being committed by military-trained commandos. Well, I thought about that for a while and then called my

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old firearms instructor from the FBI Academy. His name is GusMitchell. Have either of you ever met him?”

“Sure, I know him real well,” McMahon answered. Wardwell shook his head no.

“Well, Gus is an old Delta Force commando, so I called him and ran Kennedy’s theory by him. We could only talk for a couple of minutes because he had to go teach a class, but in that short time he said something that didn’t really sink in until you brought this budget thing up. Gus said one of the most difficult things about planning an operation like this would be to pick a time where you were guaranteedthat all of your targets would be where you wanted them.

When you look at these assassinations from the killers’ standpoint, the morning before the budget is supposed to go to a vote is the perfect time. All of the Congressman have to be in town to vote, and all of the Senators stay in town to try to influence the outcome.

Any other day, and these guys are flying in and out of town with little or no notice.”

McMahon nodded his head up and down while he thought about Jennings’s new angle. It might be worth his time to go give Gus Mitchell a little visit. O’Rourke and

Scarlatti were walking down the sidewalk.

Scarlatti had both arms wrapped around O’Rourke’s waist, and he had his arm around her shoulder. The cold night air felt good on their faces.

Liz reached up and kissed him on the chin. O’Rourke smiled and noted it was the first time he had done so in days. Everything had been so tense, so serious, over the last several weeks. It felt good holding on to Liz, but something told him things in

Washington were going to get worse before they got better. When they reached

O’Rourke’s house, they walked up the steps to the front door. The first level of the brownstone was a two-car garage.

Parked on the same side of the street and down about three houses was a black BMW

with dark-tinted windows and diplomatic license plates. The man behind the steering wheel watched as the handsome couple entered the house. He looked up and down the street to see if anyone had followed. As Michael and Liz entered the house, O’Rourke’s yellow Lab, Duke, jumped up from his spot on the kitchen floor and ran down the hallway. Liz let go of Michael to greet the excited dog. “Hello, Duke. How are you? I’ve missed you.” Scarlatti patted him on the side and scratched his neck, while the eighty-pound Lab wagged his tail. O’Rourke said hello to his roommate of seven years and patted him on the head. Scarlatti stood up. “Where’s your ball, Duke? Where’s your ball?

Go get your ball.”

Duke frantically tapped his paws on the hardwood floor and then bolted down the hallway in search of his ball. O’Rourke took Scarlatti’s jacket, hung it up, and said, “Hey, don’t get him too excited. I’ve got more important things for us to do than play fetch.”

“Come on, Michael, he’s been inside all day. He needs to blow off a little steam.”

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“Tim came by during lunch and took him for a jog, and believe me, I need to blow off a lot more steam than Duke does.” O’Rourke smiled and wrapped both arms around her waist. “Easy, big boy. You’ll get yours soon enough.”

“I’m going to hold you to that promise.”

“Don’t worry, you won’t have to.” Scarlatti stood on her toes and kissed him. A

second later Duke returned and dropped his blue ball at their feet. They ignored him for a while and continued to kiss until Duke let out a loud bark. Scarlatti let go of O’Rourke and grabbed the ball. She waved it in front of Duke’s mouth several times, then threw it down the hallway. O’Rourke patted her on the butt and started up the stairs. “I’m going to go fill the bathtub. When you’re finished with Duke, why don’t you grab a bottle of wine and come on up.”

Scarlatti smiled and nodded her head. When O’Rourke reached the second floor, he walked down the short hallway to his den. Standing in front of his selection of CDs, he ran his eyes over the thin plastic cases turned on their side. He stopped at one of Liz’s favorites. O’Rourke grabbed the Shawn Colvin CD, put it in, and hit play. The light by the window was on, and the shade was open. He walked over, turned off the light, and stood for a moment looking down at the dark street below.

The young Congressman reflected back to a hunting trip he had taken almost a year ago. A trip where he had divulged a dark and damaging secret involving Senator

Fitzgerald.

For the first time since the murders, Michael allowed himself to wonder if the person he had told that secret to was capable of taking the lives of Fitzgerald, Koslowski, and

Downs.

O’Rourke did not have to search deep-the answer was a resounding yes.

The assassin looked up at the shadow standing in the window on the second floor.

The windows of the car were cracked slightly so he could hear what was going on outside the car. For several minutes, he continued to scan the street, checking to see if there were any new people or cars he hadn’t seen on previous nights. He did so with minimal movement. Only his eyes darted back and forth, using the mirrors to look behind. After several minutes, he started the car and drove off. He had seen what he needed.

ROACH AND MCMAHON WERE SITTING IN THE OVAL OFFICE WAITING

FOR the President, Garret, and whoever else would be attending the meeting. It was almost twelve-fifteen, and no one had entered the room since a Secret Service agent had let them in at noon. The two FBI men were sitting in front of the fireplace, one on each couch. Neither had said a word since arriving. The President and Garret were up to something, and Roach wasn’t quite sure what it was, but until he figured it out, he would

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move with caution. At that same moment, the President, Garret, Hopkinson, Speaker

Basset, Senator Lloyd Hellerman, and a half dozen secretaries and aides were crowded around the large conference table in the Cabinet Room. They were scrambling to put together a media strategy that would help make the best of a dire situation. Most of the men in the room were aware of the nation’s overall distrust of politicians, but none of them had imagined how bad it had gotten.

Hopkinson was starting to get polling information back, and it was shocking. A poll conducted by USA Today showed that almost 40 percent of those questioned believed the country would be better off without Fitzgerald, Koslowski, and Downs. When Garret heard the news earlier, he had snickered, “Let’s see where those numbers are on

Monday.” The reason he was so confident was because his phone had been ringing off the hook since the President’s speech. Americans loved a conspiracy.

They would eat up the idea that the letter was sent to confuse the FBI, and that the murders were committed in connection with a dark plot.

The seeds had been planted, and the notorious rumor mill of D.C. and the media would take care of the rest. Speaker Basset and Senator Hellerman had even taken the bait. They had both arrived early this morning and stopped by Garret’s office to ask him if anything further had been learned about the dubious authenticity of the letter. Garret told them that even he was being kept in the dark-that the agency that had provided them with the information was taking careful steps to research the lead. Garret assured them that as soon as he found anything out, they would be the first to know. One of the secretaries came down to the end of the table where the President and Garret were sitting and reminded them, for the third time, that Director Roach was waiting in the Oval Office.

The President looked at his watch. It was 12:20 P.M. “Stu, twenty minutes is long enough for them to wait.”

Garret nodded his head. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right.” Garret told the others they would be back and to continue without them. He and the President left and stopped by

Mike Nance’s office before heading on to the Oval Office. The President entered his office first, followed by Garret and then Nance. Roach and McMahon rose to meet the commander in chief. The President walked over to both men and shook their hands.

“Gentlemen, I apologize for being late, but things have been extremely hectic around here. Please be seated.” All five men sat down, and the President continued, “Well, has the FBI found anything out since yesterday?”

“We have the preliminary autopsy reports on all three bodies,” Roach said. “Agent

McMahon has brought copies and is prepared to go over them with you, if you wish.”

Garret leaned back and crossed his legs.

“That’s all right, just leave them here and we can look them over later.” Garret looked over at McMahon and stuck out his hand, expecting McMahon to personally deliver the documents. McMahon glanced at him and then handed all three briefs to Mike Nance,

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who was sitting next to him on the couch. Nance kept one and passed the other two on to the President. The President kept one and gave Garret the last copy. Garret snatched it from his boss’s hand and placed it in his folder. Without looking at either Roach or

McMahon, Garret asked, “What else do you have for us?”

Director Roach nodded to McMahon, and McMahon handed Nance three more briefs.

Roach noted, “We have three witnesses that saw the man who we think killed Senator

Downs in the park. If you turn to the third page, you’ll find a sketch of the perpetrator. As you can see, it’s pretty generic. None of the witnesses got a straight shot of the man, and he was wearing a baseball hat.”

“What are you planning to do with this sketch?” the President asked.

“Well, in light of Dr. Kennedy’s theory, I would like to start checking the personnel files of our Special Forces.” The usually stoic Nance sat forward and cleared his throat. “I

think that, for now, Dr. Kennedy’s theory should be kept very quiet. It is completely unsubstantiated, and the press would have a field day if they found out the FBI suspected

United States military personnel. Besides, there are some national security issues involved with rifling through top secret personnel files.”

“You’re not actually taking her theory seriously, are you?” Garret asked. “At this stage of the investigation, we are taking every lead seriously. I also understand the possible ramifications of Dr. Kennedy’s theory being leaked to the press.” Roach looked over at Nance. “And I also do not expect the military to hand over top secret files. I was thinking more along the lines of having them pull photos of retired Special Forces personnel only. We would promise them that Special Agent McMahon and the three witnesses would be the only ones to see them.”

Nance’s look of discomfort lessened but did not vanish. “They wouldn’t have to provide us with anything other than photographs. The witnesses wouldn’t even need to know where the photos came from.”

“We might be able to arrange something along those lines, but I don’t think the brass will like it,” Nance responded. “Hold on a minute,” interrupted Garret. “Before we go running off on wild-goose chases, I think we should have a little more evidence than a theory from some little bookworm.” McMahon stared at Garret and would not look away.

He’d promised Roach that he would keep his cool and his mouth shut during the meeting. McMahon kept thinking to himself, how does a guy like this get to be the chief of staff for the President of the United States? Roach cleared his throat and took center stage. “Well, since you’ve broached the subject of leads, could you tell me what information you have that would lead you to believe the letter is a piece of disinformation?”

Before the President could answer, Nance spoke. “Right now, we are not at liberty to discuss that information.

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The lead is still being investigated.” Instead of responding, Roach stared at the

President and thought to himself, What are these guys up to? Nance continued, “The information will be passed on to you as soon as it can be verified. The people who are looking into this want to be very careful that they don’t compromise any assets by moving too quickly.” Roach thought to himself, You bet your ass you’ll pass it onto me, or you’ll find a subpoena sitting on your desk. The director shifted his gaze away from the

President and back to Nance. “Who is investigating it?”

“I can’t say anything just yet. It’s a strange situation that I really can’t go into.” Roach looked over at McMahon and they both thought the same thing. You can tell the entire nation on TV, but you can’t discuss it with the director of the FBI. Garret sensed they weren’t buying Nance’s excuse, so he jumped into the fray.

“Director Roach, you seem as if you doubt us. Don’t you think the fact that these men were murdered on the eve of the passage of the President’s budget is more than just a mere coincidence?” “I think the timing of the murders is directly related to the President’s budget,” answered Roach, the concession catching Garret off-balance.

“So you do think there’s a good chance this letter is meant to mislead us?” Garret asked. “I think anything is possible at this point.

Agent McMahon is investigating several leads that involve the timing of the murders.”

Garret leaned forward and looked at McMahon. “What type of leads are you pursuing?”

“I am not at liberty to discuss them at this point. We are still in the early stages of running them down.” Garret sat back and quietly cursed himself for being suckered into the trap. “Special Agent McMahon, I understand that whatever leads you have may not be very solid right now, but I would still like to hear them,” the President said as he watched McMahon look to Roach. “Come now, gentlemen.

Whatever is said in this office will stay in this office,” the President continued.

McMahon almost laughed out loud but suppressed the desire. “Mr. President, if you’d please pardon my candor, you appeared on national television last night and told the entire country you had reason to believe that the letter is a piece of disinformation. Now, I can only assume that for you to say something like that, you must have some pretty solid facts regarding the authenticity of that letter, .facts that you are not willing to pass on to us, the people who are in charge of investigating these murders.

For now, we have agreed to respect your decision to not share that information. I

would hope that you would also understand our position and give us some time to run

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these leads down before we pass our information on to you.” Everyone was silent while the two sides thought about the hand McMahon had just played.

Garret was furious. Who in the fuck did this no-name agent think he was, coming into the Oval Office and denying the President information? Nance, on the other hand, admired the move. In light of the position he had just taken, they had no choice but to accept McMahon’s excuse. The maneuver had been planned by Roach and McMahon before they left the Hoover Building, and now it was the director’s turn. “Mr. President, I

realize things were very tense and confusing last night, but during your speech you said the Bureau told you there was a good chance the letter was a piece of disinformation.” ‘I’ll take the blame for that,” Garret blurted out. “I was in charge of editing the speech and I

missed it. Sorry.”

Garret’s apology smacked of blatant insincerity. Roach looked at Garret for a moment and then back to the President. “You also quoted me as saying that I guaranteed the perpetrators would be caught and brought to justice.” Again, Garret fielded the question.

“That was my fault also. I should have caught it. We meant it to sound more general, but it came out sounding like a direct quote. I apologize.”

Roach nodded his head in a feigned acknowledgment of Garret’s apology.

He knew they would lie. He just wanted to see how they would do it.

Roach looked away from Garret.

It was time to get down to important matters. “Sir, my main concern right now is not the authenticity of the letter; it is the security of the remaining five hundred and thirty-two Senators and Congressman.

The letter clearly states that if these reforms are not acted on, this group will kill more politicians. They have even made a direct threat to you, sir. For now, we have to assume the letter is real and that they will strike again. We have to arrange for protection.” The

President, Nance, and Garret nodded their heads in agreement. “I have spoken with

Director Tracy of the Secret Service, and most of the chiefs of the metro-area police departments. We are meeting this afternoon to discuss additional security measures. The tab for this protection, sir, is going to be rather large. I am going to need you to authorize special funding.”

“Don’t worry about the money. Whatever it costs will be taken care of.”

The President waved his hand in the air emphasizing that money was the least of their concerns. “How are you planning on handling the security?”

“Well, Director Tracy and I have agreed that initially we should concentrate on giving the best security to the senior-ranking members of both the House and the Senate. He and

I are working on pulling agents out of the field so they can provide personal protection

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for the ranking members. The Presidential security detail will not be weakened. If anything, Director Tracy is thinking about adding more agents. This afternoon, we will determine how many of the ranking members we can protect with just the agents from the

FBI and Secret Service. When we run out of agents, we will have to start using local police officers for the protection of the less senior members. We are also looking at using

Federal marshals, Treasury agents, and various military units. Director Tracy has also recommended that we shut down Lafayette Park and the streets surrounding the Capitol and the House and Senate office buildings. The White House is very secure, but the same cannot be said of the Capitol and the House and Senate office buildings.

To bolster the security in and around the Capitol we are considering moving in a light armored division from the Army.” Garret scoffed and shook his head vigorously. “A light armored division? Are you talking just personnel or are you talking equipment also?”

“Equipment and personnel,” Roach responded in an even tone. “You mean to tell me you’re going to surround the Capitol with tanks?”

“No, with Humvees, armored personnel carriers, and Bradley fighting vehicles.”

“Like I said, you’re going to surround the Capitol with tanks.”

“No, light armored divisions don’t have tanks. That would be an armored division.”

“I know the difference,” Garret said in a mocking tone. “But the average American doesn’t.” Garret looked to the President and said, “I think we’re going a little overboard here. We can’t have tanks driving down the streets of Washington, D.C. We’ll look like the fucking Chinese, for Christ’s sake.”

The President paused while he digested Garret’s comments. “I agree with Stu. For now let’s try to keep things as normal looking as possible. I don’t want the press and the

American people to think we’re panicking. Besides, these killers would have to be suicidal to try something at the Capitol.” Roach nodded his head in compliance and then went on. The meeting lasted for another ten minutes while Roach continued to give them a broad overview of the extra security measures.

When he was done, the President walked them to the door and thanked them for coming. Roach and McMahon did not say a word until they climbed into the limo. Once the doors closed, Roach immediately started to shake his head in disapproval. He did not swear but wanted to. Roach liked to stay on a nice, even keel, while McMahon was just the opposite. “What a bunch of assholes.”

“I take it you didn’t believe a word of their story,” Roach said.

“Are you kidding me? He gets on national TV and announces to the country that he believes the letter is phony, but he won’t tell ‘the director of the FBI or the agent running the investigation where he got the information.

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It’s a crock of shit.”

“Why would he make it up if it’s obviously a lie? If he has any information, he will have to come forward with it.”

“You’re damn right he will. If he doesn’t, we’ll hit him with a subpoena and an obstruction of justice charge. This is our baby, not the NSA’s or the CIA’s. This is domestic and it’s our jurisdiction,” McMahon said.

“Yeah, that’s what worries me. They know they have to hand over what they’ve got.”

Roach paused and looked out the window. “So, what are they up to?”

“I have no idea. Politics is your department, but if they’re still proclaiming this letter is fake two days from now and they haven’t handed anything over to us, I’d get the Justice