Term Limits

Department involved.”

AFTER LEAVING HIS MEETING AT THE WHITE HOUSE, MCMAHON

DROVE out to the CIA’s headquarters in Langley, Virginia, and picked up Dr. Kennedy.

McMahon had asked her the previous evening to accompany him for the interview with Gus Mitchell, the former Delta Force commando. For the early part of the drive down to the FBI Academy, the conversation centered on the investigation and Kennedy’s theory of who the killers were. As Kennedy continued to articulate her points, McMahon couldn’t help but wonder where this woman had come from. What had possessed her to join one of the most exclusive communities in government? It was obvious that with her brains, understated savvy, and the way she carried herself, she could have entered any profession and been extremely successful. McMahon waited for a pause in the conversation.

“I hope you don’t mind me asking, but how did you end up in the employment of the

CIA?”

Kennedy looked out the window of the government issue Ford and said, “My father used to work for the State Department. Throughout most of his career he was stationed in the Middle East. He married my mother, who was Jordanian, and I grew up in a bilingual household.” Kennedy looked over at McMahon. “There aren’t a lot of Americans who are fluent in Arabic and who understand the customs and history of the area.”

McMahon nodded his understanding. “You must have been a very highly sought after commodity.”

“I suppose you could say that.” McMahon checked his side mirror and changed lanes.

“You said your father used to work for the State Department. Is he retired?”

70

“No, he passed away.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Kennedy clutched her purse with both hands.

“Thank you.” She looked at McMahon. “It was a long time ago, almost twenty years.”

Her eyes squinted while she thought about how long it had been.

“It doesn’t seem like it happened that long ago.”

“He must have been pretty young. How did he die? If you don’t mind me asking.”

Kennedy shook her head. “He was stationed at our embassy in Beirut and was killed by a car bomb.”

McMahon cringed. What a shitty way to go. “That must have been hard. You had to have been in your teens.”

“Yeah, it wasn’t the best time of my life, but I have a lot to be thankful for. My mother and I are very close. I have a great brother and four-year-old son whom I

absolutely adore.” Kennedy gave McMahon the smile of a proud parent. McMahon smiled back while the pieces fell into place. The motivation of losing a parent to terrorism was more than enough of a reason to devote one’s life to the fight against it.

“What’s your little boy’s name?”

“Tommy.” Kennedy fished a picture out of her purse and showed it to McMahon.

“He’s a good-looking little fella. I assume he looks like his father.”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“Sore subject?”

“The divorce was finalized about seven months ago. How about you, any wife or children?”

“None that I know of,” McMahon said with a grin. “I was married once.

It was a mistake. I was too young, I drank too much, and I was married to my job.”

“The Bureau?” asked Kennedy. McMahon nodded.

“Never found the time to remarry?”

“Not with this job. I can barely take care of myself.”

71

“I read your file. It looks like you’ve been pretty busy over the years.” McMahon gave the young doctor a sideways glance.

“You read my file?” Kennedy shrugged her shoulders. “I read a lot of files.”

“So do I. I’ll have to make it a point to read yours when I have the chance.”

Kennedy smiled. “Don’t waste your time. It’s pretty boring stuff.”

“I’ll bet,” replied a grinning McMahon. A short while later they pulled up to the guard post at the FBI Academy. McMahon and Kennedy showed their identification and were admitted. McMahon drove the car through the large campus and parked in front of a small office building by the firearms range. Mitchell’s office was located on the first floor.

When they arrived, Mitchell was sitting with his feet up on the desk, reading a magazine. He was wearing black combat boots and dark blue coveralls. Over the left breast of the coveralls, Instructor was embroidered in yellow, and across the back in large letters were the initials FBI. Mitchell jumped to his feet and said, “Skip, it’s great to see you. You don’t get down here enough, now that you’re a big shot.”

McMahon shook Mitchell’s hand but ignored the friendly needling. He turned to

Kennedy and said, “Gus, meet Dr. Irene Kennedy.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Dr. Kennedy. You work at Langley, correct?”

“Yes.” Kennedy smiled. “Please call me Irene.”

“Irene it is.” Mitchell motioned for his guests to follow him.

“There’s a small conference room down the hall.

Let’s use that instead. My office is a little cramped for the three of us. Can I get either of you some coffee?” Mitchell looked to Kennedy first, as his early years as a Southern gentleman had taught him.

“Please.” Kennedy brushed a strand of hair back behind her ear.

“Skip?”

“Sure.” Mitchell disappeared and Kennedy raised one of her eyebrows.

McMahon noticed the expression and asked, “What?”

“They are a unique breed, aren’t they?”

72

“Who?”

“Commandos,” replied Kennedy. “You can spot them a mile away. It’s in their eyes.”

“Really, I’ve never noticed.”

“When we recruit them to be agents, we have to teach them how to mask their alertness.” McMahon was thinking about the doctor’s comment when Mitchell returned with three cups of coffee. The three settled into chairs and McMahon asked Mitchell, “How much do you know about what happened yesterday?”

“Just what I’ve read in the papers and Irene’s theory.”

“What did you think of it?”

“Well, before I get into that, I’d like you to fill me in on the details. I usually don’t believe what I read in the papers.”

“Neither do I.” McMahon set his coffee down. “It all started with Senator Fitzgerald.

His neck was broken by someone using their bare hands. There were no signs of a struggle, no bruises on his neck or anywhere else. Our pathologist tells me it was done from behind with a jerking motion from left to right. We think whoever did it was waiting in the house, and when the Senator arrived home, he jumped him. The body was found in a storage closet in the basement.” McMahon paused as Mitchell made several notes. “The lock on the back door was picked, and the approximate time of death was twelve-fifteen A.M. The next one was a real piece of work. The perps broke into the house across the street from Congressman Koslowski’s and waited. Koslowski got out of bed, opened the shades, and they shot him twice in the back of the head.

Approximate time of death was six oh five A.M. When we showed up at the house across the street, we found a sedated German shepherd and a groggy owner. We did blood tests on both the dog and the owner and found heavy traces of sedatives. When we pumped the dog’s stomach, we also found half-digested pieces of meat with traces of drugs. The owner had no needle marks, so we’re assuming he was chloroformed.”

“Does this guy let his dog out before he goes to bed every night?”

Mitchell asked. “Yes, every night before the local news,” McMahon responded.

Mitchell nodded his head as if he already knew the answer before it was relayed. “The next murder was committed at approximately six twenty-five A.M. in a park by Senator

Downs’s house. We have several witnesses who have reported seeing a man loitering in the area just prior to the death of the Senator. He was shot in the back of the head with two nine-millimeter rounds at point-blank range.” Mitchell glanced over his notes for a moment and then stood and grabbed a green marker.

73

In the upper left corner of the white board, he wrote the number 1 and 12:15 A.M.

next to it. Next to that, he wrote the number 2 and 6:05 A.M. Then the number 3 and 6:25

A.M. When he was finished, he stepped back and looked at the board for a minute. “We have three assassinations in about six hours.” Mitchell put the cap back on the marker and tapped it on the board. “The key to any covert operation is stealth and surprise.

In the perfect operation you get in and out before anyone knows you were there, which these men obviously accomplished. When you’re planning something like this, the first thing you have to do is select your targets. After selecting them, you move into a surveillance mode.

You follow these guys around and try to find a pattern. One guy walks his dog every morning at a certain time, another gets out of bed every morning at a certain time.

When I was with the Delta Force, we took out a guy one time … I can’t say where or who, but our intelligence boys told us the target had this habit. He would get out of bed every morning and the first thing he would do was open the shades of his bedroom window. People, especially successful people, are habitual creatures. They’re organized.

This makes them more productive. I would be willing to bet you that this Koslowski character opened those shades every morning.

I’d also bet Downs walked his dog in the park every morning.”

“They did,” answered McMahon. “After you find the targets, the most difficult thing to do is to pick a window of opportunity to take them out. Now, when you’re looking at three big hitters, like these guys, that would be tough. As politicians, they travel on short notice and are always going in a million different directions. Downs may walk his dog every day, but only when he’s in town. Koslowski may open those shades every morning, but only when he’s in town. Fitzgerald may sleep in that house, but only when he’s in town.

As the assassin you have to pick a time when you know all of your targets will be where you want them to be, and you have to do it in advance. The day the President’s budget was to go to the House for a vote would be the perfect time. None of them are traveling. They all stay right here in town so they can influence the outcome.” McMahon nodded. It made sense. How else could you be sure these guys would be where you wanted them? Mitchell took the cap off the marker and circled the times of the deaths. “If

I were running this operation, this is how I’d do it. The local news is at eleven P.M right.

well, at around ten P.M I’d put one team into action and they’d drop the drugged-up meat into the backyard for the dog. Either before then, or shortly after, I would send one or two guys into Fitzgerald’s house and wait for him to come home. I’ve got another team playing backup nearby. They’re probably sitting in a car a couple of blocks away, monitoring the local police scanner. Fitzgerald comes home and my guys take him out.

They slide out of the house and are picked up by their backup. They hold their breath and wait to see if anyone saw them and called the cops. If all goes well and the cops don’t

74

show up at Fitzgerald’s, I proceed with phase two. Some time between one A.M. and four

A.M another team breaks into the house across the street from Koslowski’s. They take care of the old man, but don’t kill him or the dog. This definitely offers some valuable insight into the minds of the assassins. Let me finish and we’ll go over it later. They set up the shot and wait. Now, these guys could be the same guys who took out Fitzgerald, but I doubt it. If I’m short on assets, I would have the first team take care of Fitzgerald and then have them get set up for Downs. I would use the second team only for

Koslowski.

“This is where timing is crucial. These guys know that once Koslowski is killed, they only have twenty to forty minutes before the news spreads all over town. Team Two kills

Koslowski and clears the area. Team Three or Team One, depending on how many assets you have, is now risking exposure. They wait for Downs, knowing that the clock is ticking. The assassin may be the guy these people saw loitering around the park. He waits for Downs while his backup is nearby. Downs shows up and the assassin pumps two rounds into the back of his head. The assassin clears the area, and all the assets are undercover before anyone knows what’s going on. It’s a very smooth job. The only thing I

would have done differently is use a sniper shot on Downs. It makes no sense to expose one of your men like that. Did any of those witnesses get a good look at him?”

“No, not really, their descriptions were pretty vague. Black male, between five feet nine and six feet tall and between one hundred and sixty-five and two hundred pounds.

Approximate age thirty. No one got a real clear look at his face.”

“Well, whoever planned it seemed to do everything else right, so I have to assume he had a reason for killing Downs the way he did. Anyway, what you’ve got here is a minimum of four people and a maximum of maybe ten to fourteen depending on how many backup assets he had available.”

“So you think these guys are commandos?” McMahon asked.

“Well, you can never be sure, but my instincts tell me they are. If they were terrorists, they would have killed that old man, and besides, why would terrorists send a letter stating that we need to start reforming our government or the killing will continue? I

mean, who’s to say who’s a terrorist and who’s a commando? These labels can get real sticky. The IRA for years was considered, and by some people still is considered, a paramilitary group. They achieved that status by attacking only military and government targets. Well, as soon as they started setting off bombs and killing innocent civilians, they became terrorists.

“These people haven’t killed any civilians. They’ve killed three politicians. They even took extra steps not to kill that old man by drugging him. In my book, they’re commandos. They didn’t kill any civilians. One thing is for sure, they’re not terrorists in the Middle Eastern or European sense. Irene is right. When those nuts go after a target, they do it very violently and with no concern for noncombatants.”

75

“Then who do you think did it, an American paramilitary group?”

“You mean like those white-supremacist idiots that live out West?”

Mitchell shook his head.

“Those clowns don’t have the skill to run an operation like this. They could have killed one or maybe two of these guys with a rifle shot, but they don’t have the kind of talent to break a man’s neck bare-handed.

Do you have any idea how hard it is to do that with your bare hands?

It’s not like it is in the movies.” McMahon and Kennedy shook their heads.

“Let me tell you a little story.” Mitchell smiled. “I really shouldn’t be laughing about this, but it’s kind of funny. When they train you to be a Delta, they teach you a lot of different things, and one of them, of course, is hand-to-hand combat. Well, most of the shit they teach you, you can’t practice it all the way through, like breaking a guy’s neck for instance. I mean, how in the hell do you practice breaking a neck? Anyway, I’m on one of my first missions and my job is to take out a sentry who’s walking patrol. I’m sitting there with my partner. We’d crawled over a hundred yards to get to this one bush, and we’re waiting for the guard. When the guy passes by, I jump out and grab him. I

execute the move just like my instructors taught me, but nothing happens. Luckily, my partner was right there to finish him off with a knife before he could make any noise. The point of the story is that I was the elite of the elite. I was a Delta Force commando, and I

couldn’t pull it off. Don’t get me wrong, I know several guys who have managed to perfect the move, but they are few and far between. It’s just too difficult to learn. Your typical hit man or assassin would have slit Fitzgerald’s throat or put a bullet in the back of his head.”

Kennedy pondered Mitchell’s comments and then asked, “Based on what you’ve heard, who do you think did it?”

There was a long pause while Mitchell thought about the question. “My gut reaction…” Mitchell stopped and looked out the window. “My gut reaction is that this operation was pulled off by United States Special Forces commandos.”

McMahon took a deep breath and said, “Please elaborate.”

“I was in the Special Forces for almost fifteen years… I’ve worked with Navy SEALs, Green Berets, Rangers, Marine Recons, I’ve met them all. Do you know what the one thing is they all have in common?”

“No.”

76

“They all hate politicians. The two professions couldn’t be more fundamentally different. Commandos live by a warrior’s code, honor and integrity above everything. Do what you say and mean what you do.

Politicians just say whatever will keep them in office. Now, where you run into the problem is when you have the unprincipled, honorless politician telling the principled, honorable warrior what to do. The way the relationship works, with the politicians in the position of authority, they’re destined to foster disgust and animosity among the troops. “I

don’t know of a single Special Forces soldier who thinks Washington isn’t run by a bunch of idiots. We’ve had operations exposed because those damn fools don’t know how to keep their mouths shut. We’ve worked for months planning missions, and then had the plug pulled at the last minute because some politician didn’t have the guts to authorize it.

You have to understand the mentality of a commando.

They’ve given everything they have to this country, and in return they see those whores selling America down the drain. I don’t mean all of them. There are some good, honest politicians, but they are a rarity.

Most of those guys are lying, misdirected egomaniacs. They think it’s just a game.”

Mitchell paused briefly. “There’s a lot of hate and distrust between the military and

Washington. There always has been, and it’s even worse when you start talking about

Special Forces personnel.”

“So, you think the letter is for real?”

“Who knows?”

Mitchell paused again and looked out the window. “If I had to put money on it, I’d bet it’s for real. Shit, turn on the radio, go to your local bar, people are sick of the way this country is run ….

These murders weren’t committed as part of a plot to derail the Stevens administration. They were committed the morning of the vote because the vote assured the assassins that all of their targets would-be where they wanted them to be. My bet is that these guys are ex-United States Special Forces commandos and they mean everything they said in that letter. Which of course means that unless these idiots start taking their demands seriously, you’re going to have more dead politicians on your hands.”

DIRECTOR ROACH STOOD IN THE KITCHEN OF his SUBURBAN

MARYLAND home. Sunday-morning mass was at eleven-thirty, and they would be leaving shortly, but first he wanted to scan the morning press shows and see what type of lines the administration would be floating.

77

Speaker Basset was the featured guest on Inside Washington, a weekly political talk show. Roach was leaning against the counter, looking at the small color TV next to the sink. His youngest child walked into the room and opened the refrigerator door. Roach bent over and kissed the top of her head. “Good morning, Katie.”

“Hi, Dad.” Katie Roach was twelve years old and had not been a planned pregnancy.

Her next closest sibling was eight years her elder. Patty Roach had given birth to the youngest of the four Roach kids at the age of forty. Two of Katie’s brothers were in college, and the oldest boy had already graduated. Roach often caught himself smiling at

Katie and thinking how much his and his wife’s lives had been blessed by this wonderful little girl. The youngest of the Roach clan stood motionless in front of the open refrigerator door, her eyes scanning the shelves, searching for nothing in particular. “Dad, can I have a can of Coke?”

“May I have a can of Coke,” Roach corrected her, and patted her on the head. “Yes, you may have a can of Coke.” Katie snatched the can from the door and scampered out of the kitchen.

A moment later Patty Roach came around the corner. “Brian, I don’t want her drinking a can of soda before mass.”

Without taking his eyes off the TV, Roach replied, “Honey, she’s twelve years old, a little sugar isn’t going to kill her.”

“I’ll try to remember that when she’s bouncing all over the pew in twenty minutes.

Come on, turn off that TV. I don’t want to be late.”

“Hold on, I want to watch this for a minute.”

“Brian, I don’t want to be late again this week.”

“Honey, take Katie and get in the car. Tell the guys to get saddled up, and I’ll be out in a minute.”

The “guys” Roach was referring to were his personal protection detail, more commonly known as his bodyguards. Patty left the room and Roach turned his attention back to the TV. The panel on the show consisted of three reporters, one of whom acted as the host. This morning’s special guest, House Speaker Thomas Basset, and the three reporters sat in a semicircle, around a horseshoe news desk. Roach stepped across the room and turned up the volume. “Speaker Basset, this week was an extremely difficult one for many of us here in the nation’s capital, probably more so for you than most. You were very close to these three men. You have worked with them for most of your adult life not always agreeing, but more often than not finding a common ground. How have the events of the last several days affected you?” Basset shifted in his chair. “They have been, to put it lightly, very difficult …. What most people don’t understand is just how tight of a community we are here in Washington. Our wives all know each other, many of

78

our children went to school together, we see each other at the local churches on Sunday, we’re a very tight group. The last three days have been extremely painful.” Basset shook his head and looked away from the camera. “How have you, personally, taken the deaths of your colleagues?”

“I’m grieving right now … there’s a lot of pain. You go to bed one night and wake up the next morning only to find out that three men who you have worked with for over thirty years have all been brutally murdered.

It’s shocking. It’s very painful.”

“I know this week is going to be hard for you, but what are your plans for bringing the House back into legislative session?”

“I will take my time to grieve and remember these great statesmen appropriately, and then we will turn to the President for guidance.

President Stevens is a very strong leader, and with his help we will move forward and get back to the business of governing this country.”

“Mr. Speaker, everyone is very aware of the letter that was sent to the media by the group claiming responsibility for the murders.

There have been some rumors circulating around town regarding the authenticity of this letter. The President even hinted at it in his speech the other night. Can you shed some light on any of these rumors?”

“To the best of our knowledge, the letter was sent by the group that committed the murders. The letter was postmarked the day before the killings and names all three of the deceased. What is in question right now is the actual reason why these murders were committed.” The host leaned forward. “Do you mean to imply that the murders were not committed for the reasons stated in the letter?”

“That is what we are exploring.”

“What leads you to believe the letter is not what it appears to be?”

“Well, the FBI is very suspicious of the timing of these murders.”

“Why?” Basset hesitated for a moment. “They are uncertain that the murders were committed solely for the reasons stated in the letter.”

The host became visibly excited as he asked his next question. “What facts have they discovered to back this up?”

79

“The FBI is being very tight-lipped about this, as I’m sure you can understand. All I

know right now is that they have received some information that has led them to believe the murders were committed for reasons other than those stated in the letter.”

Roach looked at the TV and shook his head. “What in the hell are these guys up to?”

The host continued, “What type of information?” Basset frowned. “I can’t go into it right now.” One of the other reporters jumped in. “If you can’t tell us what the FBI has learned, can you tell us what they are speculating the real motive to be?” Basset shifted uneasily in his seat. Garret and the President had briefed him on the plan. He found the possibility of the murders being committed for the purpose of toppling the Stevens administration and the party to be plausible. At this point, in this town, anything could be possible. What he felt uncomfortable doing was intentionally lying about what the FBI

believed to be the reason for the murders. But Basset had learned long ago not to probe too deep. It was easier on his conscience to ponder his actions lightly. With no visible guilt or awkwardness Basset uttered his preplanned response. “The FBI thinks the murders were committed to try and stop the President’s budget from being passed.”

Roach tried to stay calm as he pinched the bridge of his nose tighter and tighter. The program broke away for a commercial and he turned off the TV. As he walked to the door, he asked himself once again, “What in the hell are they up to?”

Eleven miles away, Michael O’Rourke sat in his living room with Liz and Seamus.

Seamus had arrived earlier that morning. Michael and Seamus watched the broadcast with irritation while Liz was busy pecking notes into her laptop. She had a column that was supposed to be on her editor’s desk by 5 P.M. The program came back on the air, and the one woman on the panel started to ask questions. “Mr. Speaker, I know this must be a very difficult time for you and your colleagues, and I would not for a moment want you to think that I am condoning these murders, but the assassinations have thrust into the spotlight some reforms that the American people have endorsed for quite some time. The idea of term limits has an approval rating of almost ninety percent, and a balanced-budget amendment has an approval rating of close to eighty percent. Everyone agrees the national debt needs to be reduced and this letter brings up a point that no one in

Washington is willing to address, and that is, cuts in Social Security and Medicare. It is a horrible tragedy that three of our country’s elder statesmen have been assassinated, but maybe some good can come of it, if it forces you and the rest of your colleagues to make some overdue and needed reforms.” Basset took a deep breath.

They had anticipated a question along these lines, and Garret had helped prepare an answer.

Basset paused for a moment and stared at the reporter. “I would like you to try and tell the wives, children, and grandchildren of those three men what good could possibly come from this.” Basset shook his head in a disgusted manner. “Mr. Speaker, I am not saying that this isn’t a horrible tragedy for the families of these men. What I am asking is, what is it going to take for the leaders of this country to implement the reforms that the

80

American people want? I mean, if these horrible murders are not going to move you to action, what will?”

“We do not even know if these demands are sincere. As I have told you, the FBI

believes the intent of that letter to be bogus. and besides, I resent the fact that we have not even had time to bury these honorable men, and you are talking about kowtowing to the demands of their murderers.”

“Mr. Speaker, I am not talking about kowtowing to anyone. I am only asking if you plan to implement certain reforms that the American people want.”

“I can answer absolutely and emphatically, no! The government of the United States of America has never, and will never, negotiate with terrorists.”

“No one is asking you to negotiate with terrorists, Mr. Speaker. We are talking about making several simple, long-overdue reforms.” Basset started to shake his head back and forth. “The key word in that sentence was simple. Running this country is a very complex and difficult task. A couple of ‘simple reforms’ as you phrased it will not even solve some of the minor problems our country has.” Basset turned to the host. “And I would like to add, things are not as dire as some would lead us to think. The President has been doing a fine job. The economy is strong, and we have been reporting smaller budget deficits than the previous administration.” The reporter was not to be deterred by simple political rhetoric. “So you plan on doing nothing, Mr. Speaker?”

“No. I plan on bringing the House back into session as soon as we are done paying respect to our fallen colleagues, and then we will pass the President’s budget. A budget that, I might add, the American people want.”

O’Rourke got off the couch and tossed the remote control on Liz’s lap. “What’s it going to take for these guys to learn? Seamus, do you want to go for a walk?” Michael’s grandfather nodded and got out of his chair. Michael left the room and appeared in the doorway a moment later with two coats and Duke’s leash. He handed one of the coats to

Seamus and bent down to snap the leash onto Duke’s collar. He stood and looked over at

Liz, who was focused on the TV. “Honey, we’ll be back in an hour or so.” Without looking up, she replied, “I’ll be here. You two have a nice time.”

Michael watched her diligently type away while she stayed focused on the program.

Walking behind the couch, he bent over and kissed her on the cheek. “Don’t pull any punches, honey.” Scarlatti smiled and said, “I never do.”

“That’s why you’re my favorite journalist.”

“I hope that’s not the only reason.” Seamus grinned at Michael and the two of them, along with Duke, left the house. When they reached the sidewalk, Seamus said, “You two seem very happy.”

81

“We are. If it wasn’t for our jobs, I would have probably asked her to marry me by now.” The stoic Seamus said, “Well, you have my approval.”

As an afterthought he added, “If it matters.”

Michael wrapped an arm around his grandfather and with a big grin said, “You’re damn right it does.” Duke began sniffing everything in their path, zigzagging back and forth across the sidewalk. Michael looked over his shoulder and said, “There’s something we really need to talk about.

“Does it have anything to do with what you mentioned on the phone the other day?”

“Yes. Remember the hunting trip we went on last year with-” Seamus raised his hand and cut Michael off. “Don’t mention any names.”

Seamus looked up and down the street. Washington gave him the creeps.

“With all of these damn embassies around here, the FBI, the CIA, the NSA, and all of the defense intelligence agencies, it’s a wonder any conversation takes place in this town without being recorded.” Michael nodded. you know who I’m talking about.”

The younger of the two O’Rourkes lowered his voice. “On that trip I gave him some highly sensitive information about a Senator who cost the lives of half the men in his unit.”

“I remember.” Michael paused and said, “I think that he might be involved in these assassinations. “And?” Seamus shrugged his shoulders with indifference. “You don’t think it’s a big deal?”

Seamus retrieved his pipe from his jacket. “Yes, I think it’s a big deal.” He packed some tobacco in the bowl and sucked a flame down into it.

Exhaling a cloud of smoke, he said, “Michael, partisan politics has always existed in this country and it always will. In a way it’s healthy. The parties act as another check and balance. They pulled the same crap when I was your age; the only difference was, when push came to shove, they were responsible enough to balance the budget. The problem today is that men like Koslowski, Fitzgerald, and Downs… the old guard … they control the system. All of this shit went down on their watch, and they did nothing to prevent it.

In fact they resisted commonsense change at every turn. They are the reason we are five trillion dollars in debt, and I couldn’t be happier that they are dead.”

Michael gave Duke’s leash a slight yank to get him to slow down. “I’m not sad they’re dead either. I’ve seen up close and personal the way they do business, and I couldn’t be happier that they’re gone. My problem is that I’m not entirely comfortable with the idea

82

that I may have set this whole thing in motion by relaying a highly classified piece of information that I wasn’t even supposed to know.”

Seamus waited for another walker to pass before he gave his answer. “We went over this before you told him. You commanded a recon unit when you were in the Corps. If some little silver-spoon millionaire politician compromised a mission that you and your men were on because he had had one too many martinis … and his loose lips lead to the deaths of half of your unit, would you want to know?”

Michael sighed deeply and said, “Yes.”

“That’s all the farther you need to look, Michael.” Seamus took several more puffs off his pipe while they walked. “Have you talked to anyone else about this?”

“No.”

“Not even Liz?”

“No.”

“Good. Keep it under your hat. If our boy is behind this, we’re fortunate. This is the first chance we’ve had for real change in thirty years.”

“I agree. It’s just that something like this could spin out of control real fast, and I don’t want to see him get taken down.”

“Don’t worry. He isn’t going to get caught. He’s been doing this for years, in places a hell of a lot more dangerous than the United

States.”

Director Thomas Stansfield sat in his office with only his desk lamp on.

Outside the window of his corner office, powerful floodlights illuminated the formidable compound of the Central Intelligence Agency.

Three years ago he would never have been found in the office on a Sunday night. He would have been sitting at home with his wife.

Stansfield’s demanding job required him to work some long and strange hours, but

Sunday evenings had been the one night of the week, barring an international crisis, when he would drop everything to be at home.

He and his wife would typically watch 60 Minutes while making dinner, maybe relax in front of a fire, watch a movie, and then call the girls out on the West Coast. They had

83

two daughters, both married, one living in Sacramento and the other in San Diego. This calm, comforting, and loving part of Thomas Stansfield’s existence had vanished with little notice.

Sara Stansfield had left his life too quickly. During a routine physical, a tumor had been discovered. When the doctors went in to take it out, they found that the cancer had already spread to several glands.

Two months later, Sara was dead. It had been the most painful two months of

Stansfield’s life.

That he worked in a profession where emotions were looked on as a liability-a profession where tough-minded and emotionally neutral people played a serious game—

did not help things. When Sara died, Stansfield had been the Agency’s director for just over a year. Just when he’d reached the top of his profession, he’d lost the most important person in his life. Those who were close to him offered their private condolences, and they were appreciated. Some offered to help with the workload until he was up to it, but

Stansfield had kindly refused.

After Sara’s funeral, he spent several days with his daughters and three grandchildren, reminiscing about his beautiful wife and their loving mother and grandmother. The sons—

in-law respected the feelings of a very private man and kept their distance. When the weekend was over, he put his loved ones on a plane and went back to work. Even three years later, Sara was often on his mind. The pain was gone and had been replaced by fond memories, hard work, and trips to see his daughters and grandchildren. Stansfield was a first in the history of CIA directors.

He had no military experience, he was not a lawyer or a politician, and he was not Ivy

League educated. Stansfield had entered the Agency during the mid-fifties, after graduating from the University of South Dakota. He had something the Agency was searching for desperately-he was fluent in three languages: English, German, and

Russian. Being raised on a farm in rural South Dakota during the pre-television days gave his German-immigrant father and his Russian-immigrant mother plenty of time to teach their children the languages, customs, and folklore of their native lands. Stansfield had been one of the CIA’s most productive agents during the fifties and sixties. In the seventies he became a case officer, in the early eighties he was the Agency’s station chief in Moscow, and then in the late eighties he became the deputy director of operations. At the time, he thought he’d reached the end of the ladder.

That was until the previous President did something that surprised everyone. The

CIA, at the time of the collapse of the Soviet Union, had grown to rely heavily on nonhuman data. They were spending most of their resources spying the high-tech way, with satellites and other electronic devices. The electronic information that the Agency collected was valuable, but nowhere near as valuable as a well-placed agent. During that

President’s second year, he was confronted with his first national-security crisis and was

84

forced to face the harsh reality that his intelligence agencies could not give him the information he needed.

All of those billion dollar satellites and million-dollar spy planes could not tell him what he needed to know. What he needed was someone on the ground, someone on the inside. A spy. Following that incident, the President put together a task force and asked them to come up with a strategy for correcting this shortcoming. Stansfield was placed on the task force, which he thought was nothing more than a waste of time and energy.

After months of late meetings and lengthy debates, the task force briefed the President on its findings. They told him that America needed to increase its human intelligence—

gathering apparatus on a global scale. They told him it would take a long-term commitment, and that it could be a minimum of six to ten years before they started to see any tangible results from their efforts. To Stansfield’s amazement the President not only agreed, but decided that since the current director of the CIA was retiring shortly, it would make sense to have someone who understood the human side of the business running the Agency. Some people were upset that they had been passed over for the position, but most of them had no choice but to respect the decision.

Stansfield was an icon, a real-life spook. He had earned his spurs running around behind the Iron Curtain risking his life. He had risen through the ranks and put in his time. The phone on Stansfield’s desk started to ring, and he looked over the top of his spectacles to see which line it was. The light blinking on the far right told him it was his private line. He grabbed the phone and said hello. Tom, Brian Roach here. Sorry to bother you on a Sunday night, but I need to run a couple of things by you.” It wasn’t unusual for Roach to be calling his counterpart at the CIA, but tonight he felt a little uncomfortable.

“No problem at all, Brian. I’m just trying to get a head start on the week.

What can I help you with?” After a prolonged pause, Roach said, Tom, I need to ask you a couple of questions, and if you don’t want to answer them, please just tell me.”

“Go right ahead.”

“Tom, do you or does anyone at the Agency possess any information that would lead you to believe the murders were committed for reasons other than those stated in that letter?”

Stansfield’s eyebrows frowned at the question. “Not that I know of.”

“No one at the Agency has told the White House that they have discovered some information that suggests the motives of the killings were something other than those stated in that letter?” Roach asked again, more firmly.

“No, I thought you guys were the ones that came up with that theory.” Roach breathed a long, frustrated sigh.

85

“No, we haven’t told the white House anything.”

“Then why are the President and all of his people running around town saying that you have?”

“That’s what I would like to find out.”

“It sounds like they’re up to something.” Stansfield leaned back in his chair and turned to look at a map of the world on his wall.

“Yeah, I’ve been getting the same feeling.” Roach paused and took another deep breath. “Any advice?”

Stansfield thought about the question. He was normally careful about giving his opinion, but he and Roach were of the same cloth. He had a lot of empathy for his counterpart at the FBI. It might be Roach whom they were doing a job on this week, but it could easily be him next time. “I think it may be a good idea to drop a little hint to the media that you have no idea what the White House is talking about.”

Roach pondered the advice for a moment. He liked the direct approach.

“Thanks, Tom, I appreciate the advice. If you hear of anything, please let me know.”

“Will do.” Stansfield set the phone back in its cradle and closed his eyes. Mike Nance and his associates made him nervous. Nance was the real brains over at the White House, the man with the connections.

Garret was sitting in his office with his feet up on the desk and an array of newspapers before him. It was just after six on Monday morning, and his plan was coming along nicely. With a cigarette dangling from his lips he snickered at how easy it was to manipulate the media. The front page of the Washington Post read, “Murky

Conspiracy Rumored to Be Behind Murders.” The front page of the New York Times read, “FBI Thinks Murders Were Committed to Stop President’s Budget.” The

Washington Reader read, “FBI Thinks Letter Is Bogus.”

Garret laughed out loud. It had been so easy. It made no difference if it was made up or not, the damage had been done. The American people would read the headlines and believe what they saw. Public support would rally back to the President, and they would ride it into a second term. Garret shook his head and grinned as he thought of the power he wielded. Garret’s plan was simple. All he had to do was continue to portray the

President as a victim and hope those idiots over at the FBI could catch these people. He smiled at how easy it was to play the power game against principled men like Roach.

While they took the time to decide if a course of action was right or wrong, Garret worried only about being caught. He had no time for petty little laws and technicalities,

86

and he definitely had no time for someone else’s morals. He was there to get things done, and to play the game by his own rules.

Director Roach’s limousine pulled up in front of the Hyatt hotel at 6:55 A.M. He was there to give a brief speech to the National Convention of Police Chiefs. Because of the assassinations, he had considered having one of his deputies handle the speech, but after talking to Stansfield, he decided to give it himself.

He’d just finished scanning a Washington Reader article stating that the FBI thought there was a conspiracy behind the murders. As his bodyguards opened the door of the limo, a small mob of about eight reporters and cameramen closed in. Roach stepped out of the limo and said hello to the group. A tall, blond-haired woman got to him first.

“Director Roach, could you please tell us what information the FBI has discovered that would lead you to believe the letter sent to the media after the killings is a cover for the real reason Senator Downs, Senator Fitzgerald, and Congressman Koslowski were killed?” To the surprise of Roach’s bodyguards, their boss stopped to answer the question.

The reporters jostled each other to get their mikes in Roach’s face. “As of right now, we believe that letter to be sincere and are very concerned about the possibility of other assassinations.”

A tall male reporter blurted out the next question. “Director Roach, do you think the murders were committed in an attempt to derail President Stevens’s budget?”

“No, I do not. We think the assassinations took place on the eve of the budget vote because it guaranteed the assassins that Congressman Koslowski, Senator Downs, and

Senator Fitzgerald would be in town.

“I don’t understand. The White House has been reporting that the FBI believes the murders were committed to derail the President’s budget,” said a somewhat confused reporter. “Those reports are incorrect.”

Before another question could be asked, Roach turned and entered the hotel.

Within minutes, his comments were being played as the lead story on every morning network news show. Without knocking, Garret opened the door to Nance’s office and barged in. Nance glanced up from his TV, which was showing the taped interview of

Roach. “What in the hell is he doing?” asked Garret as he pointed at the TV.

Nance turned his head away from the TV. “Relax, Stu, this was expected. You didn’t really think he would sit there and let us use him, did you?”

“Hell no, but I at least thought he’d come to us, not go to the press,” Garret said, glaring at the TV. “Calm down, we already got what we wanted. The polls have swung

87

ten points in our favor. The people think there’s some big conspiracy to ruin the

President. The press loves the story and will run with it, regardless of what Roach says.

We’ll have Moncur release a statement saying it was improperly implied that the FBI

had discovered the information when it was in fact another government agency. They’ll all assume it’s the CIA, and it’ll make the story that much better. Besides, we can use this

‘Roach thing’ to our advantage. He fired the first shot. With a FBI leaks to the right people, the press will be printing stories saying there’s bad blood between Roach and the

White House, and if he doesn’t make some progress in solving these murders, things will get very uncomfortable for him.

Combine that with the fact that our friends in the media will be more than willing to do a butcher job on a saint like Roach, and we’ll have his letter of resignation in our hands by next month.” In a rare moment of’ emotion, Nance smiled at Garret, and the gesture was returned.

THE BELL ATLANTIC VAN WAS PARKED ON NEW HAMPSHIRE AVENUE, A half block from Dupont Circle. The two men in the back checked their makeup and equipment one last time. On top of their Afro wigs they were wearing yellow plastic hard hats. They were also wearing blue coveralls with a Bell Atlantic patch over the left pocket. They nodded to the driver, grabbed their bags, and climbed out of the van.

Casually, they walked down the stairs leading to the Dupont Circle platform of the

D.C. metro.

Upon reaching the platform, they climbed on board the metro and took the red line to

Union Station. They arrived about five minutes later and got off. Threading their way through the other subway riders, they walked to the end of the platform and stepped out onto the small edge running along the side of the tunnel. After about fifty feet they reached a doorway and stopped. The shorter man handed a bag to his accomplice and went to work on the lock. Twenty seconds later they were in. They stepped through the vault door that led to one of the underground tunnel systems that ran beneath

Washington, D.C. The system they had just entered housed mostly phone lines and various utility pipes. The sewers carrying the city’s waste and water runoff were located in another system that was buried even deeper. As they walked through the squared cement tunnel, the taller of the two men had to tilt his head to one side to avoid hitting the lights that were spaced about every fifty feet overhead. They took a series of turns, and after about three minutes they were standing in front of another door.

Again, the shorter of the two went to work on the lock. When he was finished picking it, he opened the door and placed a piece of duct tape over the lock. The two men stepped into the subbasement of a twelve-story office building and let the door close behind them.

The shorter of the two headed for the staircase and disappeared. The second man weaved through the mass of pipes and structural supports until he found what he was looking for.

He pried open the steel access panel to the main duct of the building’s ventilation system

88

and placed it on the ground. The other man had just finished climbing to the sixth floor of the multi-tenant office building.

They had scouted the building months in advance. The top five floors were leased by a law firm, and the rest of the floors were half-filled with lobbying firms, smaller offices, and various other businesses.

Vacant suites were interspersed on all of the floors except the top five. He opened the staircase door and looked down the hallway. With no one in sight, he casually walked down the hall and stopped at the third door on his right. Setting his bag down, he started to pick the lock.

Speed was not crucial; acting relaxed and nonchalant was. He wasn’t worried about one of the office workers seeing him. If they did, they wouldn’t be surprised by someone from the phone company going into an empty office suite. Finishing with the lock, he entered the room and walked over to the tinted window. Dropping to one knee, he set his bag down and emptied the contents, laying them out on the floor in a precise manner. In under a minute he assembled the rifle and placed the nitroglycerin-tipped round in the chamber. Twenty seconds later the rifle was affixed to the top of a tripod. The assassin eased his left eye in behind the scope and stared down at the front door of the building directly across the street. He then turned on the laser sight, and a small red dot appeared on the tinted window. Twisting the screws on the tripod, he locked the rifle into place, and then, reaching into his bag, he grabbed a glass cutter and placed the suction cup in the middle of the red dot. Slowly, he swung the cutting piece in a clockwise motion with his right hand. Instead of popping the newly cut piece free, he tied one end of string around the glass cutter and the other end around one of the tripod’s legs. Pulling the microphone arm down from under the short brim of his hard hat, he said, “Chuck, this is

Sam, come in, over.” Despite the whine of the machinery in the basement, the second man heard his partner loud and clear. “This is Chuck, over.”

“Everything is set on my end, over.”

“Roger, everything is set down here, over.”

Secret Service agent Harry Dorle had been pulled out of the field and directed to head the personal protection detail for Congressman Thomas Basset. Since Basset was the

Speaker of the House, he was deemed a high-profile target by the FBI and the Secret

Service.

Dorle had been the special agent in charge for the Presidential detail of the previous administration. When his boss lost his reelection bid to Stevens, it was the end of Dorle’s assignment. Like most of the Presidents before him, Stevens wanted a changing of the guard. The Secret Service did not object to this tradition because they knew it was good for their agents to be rotated. It helped prevent complacency and boredom. Dorle sat in the lobby of Speaker Basset’s Capitol office and waited for the Speaker to give the word that he was ready to leave.

89

The tall, middle-aged agent looked calm on the outside, but inside he was a wreck. He had read the report on the Koslowski, Fitzgerald, and Downs assassinations, and it scared him. The assassins were professionals.

Three hits, all in one night. One a bare-handed kill, the second a rifle shot, and the third a point-blank hit. These guys were not your run-of-the-mill Aryan Nation types.

They were pros, and with the way Basset liked to gallivant around town, he would be an easy target.

Because there were so many Congressman and Senators to protect, the Secret Service had not been able to give Dorle the number of agents he wanted. They had given him only five men and women, and the Speaker’s normal Capitol Police detail had been increased to eight officers around the clock. Dorle made a cursory effort to ask Basset to cancel all public appearances until things cooled down, and as Dorle had expected, Basset declined. This, of course, made Dorle’s job extremely difficult.

He knew the only way to really protect Basset was to keep him locked up in his house, his office, or his armor-plated limo. As soon as Basset left either of the three, Dorle’s ability to protect him was reduced significantly. They were minutes away from leaving for Basset’s taped interview with CNN. Dorle told his new boss that he thought it was a bad idea, and Basset had politely told him he wasn’t going to cancel.

CNN had been advertising the appearance of the Speaker since late Sunday afternoon, and although it would be tape-delayed, it wouldn’t take a genius to figure out when the taping would take place. Dorle could not remember being more worried about an assignment. Whoever these killers were, they’d had months to plan what they were doing.

They’d stalked and studied their targets, and if that letter was for real, they would strike again. Dorle was gambling with his assets. He just didn’t have enough men to do a complete job. He had sent four of his Secret Service agents and two of the uniformed officers ahead to do an advance check of the CNN building. They were to do a quick check of the street, the exits, and the rooftop. He would put four of the uniformed cops on body detail. They would surround Basset as he got out of the limo and walked into the studio. Dorle had contemplated using his Secret Service agents for the body detail; they were trained to do it, but they were more valuable to him doing other things.

Speaker Basset and his aide, Matthew Schwab, appeared in the lobby, and Dorle rose to his feet. “Are you ready to go, sir?”

“Yes,” Basset answered.

Dorrell brought his left hand up to his mouth and spoke into a tiny microphone. “Art, this is Harry, over.”

The Secret Service agent just outside the office door responded, “This is Art, over.”

90

“Bobcat is ready to roll, over.” Bobcat was the code name that had been given to

Basset. The agent looked up and down the hall and nodded to the police officer holding the elevator. “The hallway is secure, over.”

“Roger, let the boys downstairs know we’re on our way, over.” Dorrell turned to

Basset and motioned for the door.

“Whenever you’re ready, sir.” Dorrell opened the door and Basset and Schwab stepped into the hallway. The entourage of Basset, Schwab, Dorrell, the other Secret

Service agent, and two cops started for the elevator. Dorrell took up the rear, while the other three men surrounded Basset and Schwab. The entourage stepped into the elevator for the short ride to the garage level. When the door opened, another police officer was waiting for them, and the group moved out of the underground parking garage. Dorrell wasn’t nervous about anything happening in the Capitol.

The assassins would have to be suicidal to try something with all the military personnel and police in the building. When they reached the garage, the limo was waiting with one police squad parked in front and another behind. Schwab and Basset Were quickly ushered into the backseat. Dorrell brought the Capitol Police officers together for a quick reminder of how things would go when they arrived at their destination. When he was finished, the police got into their squad cars, Agent Art Jones climbed behind the wheel of the large, black Cadillac, and Dorrell got into the backseat with the Speaker and

Schwab.

Before giving the order to pull out, Dorrell brought his mike up to his mouth and said, “Advance team Bravo, this is Alpha, do you read?

Over.”

The leader of the advance team at the CNN studios heard the call through his earpiece and had to cut off one of the building’s private security guards in mid-sentence. “This is

Bravo, over.”

“We are en route with Bobcat. What is your sit report? Over.”

“About as secure as we could get things on such short notice, Harry, over.”

“Roger, our ETA is two minutes. If anything changes, let me know immediately, over.” Dorrell looked at his agent behind the wheel.

“Let’s move out, Art.” Jones flashed the limo’s brights at the lead police car, and the motorcade sped out of the parking garage. The assassin looked out of the window and down at the two police officers in front of the CNN building. They’d just stepped off the curb and were standing on the street, waving by cars and cabs that wanted to stop in front of the building. He spoke into the mike hanging in front of his mouth. “Chuck, stay loose.

91

They should be arriving any minute, over.” The response came back immediately.

“Roger, everything is set down here.” The man standing in front of the ventilation shaft took off his hard hat, placed it in his bag, and pulled out a gas mask.

Reaching back into the bag, he grabbed two gray canisters and set them on top of the ventilation unit.

The motorcade pulled up in front of the building and stopped. Dorrell immediately noticed that, despite telling the drivers of both squads to give the limo at least thirty feet on either end, they had forgotten and the limo was boxed in. “Art, call the guys in the squads and tell them to move their cars farther away from the limo.” Dorrell turned to

Basset. “Sir, please stay in the car for a minute while I check things out.” Dorrell exited the limo and met his agent in charge of the Bravoteam on the sidewalk. “How are we doing?” he asked the junior man.

“Fine. The exits are secured, the elevator is being held, and Alan is on the roof keeping an eye on things.” The assassin looked down at the two men on the street and guessed that they were either Secret Service or FBI. It had been expected.

He spoke into his mike, “Chuck, get ready to pull the pin.” The man in the basement pulled the gas mask down over his face and grabbed one of the canisters. Back on the sixth floor, the assassin watched as the man who had stepped out of the limo waved several police officers over and started to organize them around the door of the limo.

None of these men would do any good. The assassin had chosen the sixth floor so the angle of the shot would be such that four seven-foot-tall officers would make no difference. They didn’t want to kill anyone other than Basset. That was also the reason the nitro-tipped bullet was being used. Unlike most rifle bullets, this one would explode on impact and not exit the target. A typical rifle bullet would spiral through the target and exit with enough velocity to inflict damage, and even death, to anyone unfortunate enough to be standing on the other side. The assassin saw the man who had gotten out of the limo a moment earlier stick his head into the open door and then step back as he helped Basset out of the backseat.

The assassin clutched the butt of the rifle a little tighter, placed his right hand on the string, and spoke into the small mike hanging in front of his mouth, “Chuck, drop the smoke.” The man in the basement pulled the pin from the first canister, tossed it into the open vent, and quickly grabbed the second canister and did the same. He then grabbed the metal access panel and covered the opening. The smoke from the two canisters immediately shot upward through the ventilation system, pushed by the warm air leaving the furnace. The man then walked briskly to the wall and waited. The assassin on the sixth floor concentrated on taking slow, deep breaths.

When he saw the head of Basset pop out of the limo, his right hand yanked the string attached to the glass cutter, and the newly created circle of glass dropped to the floor.

Basset was ushered into the middle of the four police officers, and the group started to move toward the door. The assassin spoke into his mike, “Pull the alarm.”

92

In the basement, his accomplice yanked on the fire alarm. The loud buzzing of the alarm reverberated throughout the building and spilled out onto the street. Dorrell and his agents were sweeping the street and looking at everyone but Basset. When the alarm went off, the police officers surrounding Basset did what their instincts told them to do.

They stopped and looked to see where the noise was coming from.

At the same time the police officers’ instincts kicked in, so did Dorle’s. He lunged forward and screamed, “Keep moving!” As he reached the back of the first officer, he heard what he instantly knew was the loud crack of a rifle shot. He continued to push the group as he yelled, “Move! Move!” He took two steps, and then the officer in front of him stumbled and fell, landing on the fatally wounded Basset.

Dorrell placed his hand on the back of the officer to prevent himself from falling and looked down to see if Basset had been hit. The answer was immediately obvious. There was blood everywhere. The nitro-tipped bullet had ripped apart the back of Basset’s head, and the white shirts of the Capitol Police officers were covered with blood and a good portion of the Speaker’s brain.

Dorrell kneeled over the pile and brought his mike to his mouth.

“Bobcat’s been hit! I repeat, Bobcat has been hit!” Two of the Secret Service agents were now standing between the street and the pile of bodies on the ground, their Uzis drawn, and their eyes searching the buildings across the street. The assassin quickly disassembled the rifle and put everything back in the bag. Smoke was filling the room and he yanked his gas mask over his face. Grabbing the bag, he ran down the hallway toward the stairwell. Once in the stairwell, he pushed his way past the scared office workers who thought the building was on fire.

Dorrell looked down at what was left of Basset’s head and knew the Speaker was dead. Just then, the voice of the Secret Service agent on the roof of the CNN building came barking over Dorle’s earpiece. “I think the shot came from the building directly across the street!”

Dorrell jumped to his feet and started shouting orders. “Art, call for backup, let’s secure that building!” Turning to one of the cops, he yelled, “Take two of your men and head around the back! I don’t want anyone leaving the area! And be careful!” Grabbing the two agents who had their Uzis drawn, he ran across the street for the front of the building. They darted between the cars that had stopped to see what was happening. They made it to the other side of the street, and just as they reached the front of the building, an onslaught of frantic office workers met them coming the other way. They were blocked from getting inside. Three blocks away at Union Station, the blond-haired assassin was wearing loose jeans, a large sweatshirt, and a baseball hat. He walked over to a row of pay phones. Union Station, like most large train and subway stations, had hundreds of pay phones. It was an easy place for a person to come and go unnoticed. The man

93

reached into his left pocket and pulled out a quarter. The dirty-blond hair that came out from under the cap and down to his shoulders was not natural.

Neither was his posture. Instead of standing erect and looking like an athletic, six-foot-tall man, he was slouching. To the casual observer he looked like a slightly overweight man who was no taller than five ten. He punched the seven digits into the phone and pulled a small recorder out of his pocket. A female voice answered on the other end, “Good afternoon, American Broadcasting Corporation. How may I direct your call?” The man pressed the play button on the recorder, and a computerized voice emanated from the small speaker. “Do not hang up.

This message is from the group that is responsible for the killings of Senator

Fitzgerald, Senator Downs, Congressman Koslowski, and Speaker Basset.” The twenty-three-year-old receptionist felt her heart jolt.

She panicked for a moment and then remembered that all calls coming into the main switchboard were recorded. After a short pause the recording continued. “Speaker Basset was killed because he and the rest of his colleagues have failed to take our demands seriously. We are not terrorists. We have killed no innocent civilians; in fact, we have gone to great lengths to avoid doing so. We are not, as the White House has led the media to believe, part of a conspiracy to topple the Stevens presidency. We are a group of

Americans who are fed up with the corruption and complete lack of professionalism that exists in Washington, D.C. “We gave you a chance to implement in a peaceful, democratic way the reforms you have been promising. You have failed to do so, so we have intervened. Do not test us again or we will be forced to impose more term limits.

We have the resources and the resolve to kill any Congressman, any Senator, and even the President.

“We will grant a cease-fire and give you the remainder of the week to bury

Koslowski, Downs, Fitzgerald, and Basset. After they have been laid to rest, we expect immediate action on the reforms we have proposed.”

IT WAS STILL LIGHT OUT AS HARRY DORRELL PASSED THROUGH THE

SECRET Service checkpoint and parked his car outside the staff entrance to the West

Wing of the White House. Getting out of the car, he asked himself for the hundredth time since the shooting how the assassin had gotten away.

The police had sealed off the entire block within minutes of the attack.

All of the people who had evacuated the smoke-filled building had been roped off and were being questioned for the third and fourth time by the FBI and the Secret Service. So far, every one of them had checked out as a legitimate office worker. The building had been searched with dogs and was empty. What a mess, he thought to himself. I’ve had twenty-three good years and now this.

94

As he reached the entrance, Jack Lortch opened the door. “Harry, I’m sorry… I’m really sorry.” Lortch had replaced Dorrell as the special agent in charge of the

Presidential security detail. The two men had known each other for most of their professional careers. Dorrell nodded his head in acknowledgment, but kept his eyes averted. They walked to the main floor, Lortch leading and Dorrell following, neither saying a word. When they reached the door to the Roosevelt Room, Dorrell stopped and asked, “Jack, is the President in there?”

“No, he’s over on the residential side talking to Mrs. Basset.”

Dorrell looked down at the ground and shook his head. Lortch put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Harry, it wasn’t your fault.” Dorrell looked up. “Yeah, yeah, I know.”

When they entered the room, Stu Garret was pacing back and forth talking to Alex Tracy, the director of the Secret Service. Mike Nance was at the far end of the table, sitting by himself and observing the conversation between Garret and Tracy. Garret turned and stopped speaking as Lortch and Dorrell entered. The room fell silent and no one spoke for a moment. Director Tracy finally broke the silence.

“Gentlemen, please sit down.” Everyone sat with the exception of Garret.

Director Tracy looked at Dorrell. “Harry, are you all right?” Dorrell nodded his head yes, but said nothing. Tracy stared at him a while longer and went on, “Harry, have you met Stu Garret and Mike Nance before?”

“No.” There was another awkward silence while Dorrell waited for Nance or Garret to say something, but neither made the effort. Then Garret stepped toward the table.

“Agent Dorrell, we have been receiving reports all afternoon and we know the basic facts about what happened.

What we don’t know, and what I would really like to know, is, how did it happen?”

Garret said in one of his more confrontational tones.

“What do you mean ‘how’?” asked Dorrell. “I’ll tell you what I mean by how. I want to know how in the hell the Speaker of the House, the third most powerful man in this country, was killed in broad daylight while he was surrounded by a dozen Secret Service agents and police officers.” Garret leaned over, placed both hands on the table, and stared at Dorrell as he impatiently waited for a response. Dorrell looked at Garret and realized how this meeting was going to go. He’d heard all about Garret and his style, so he sat up a little straighter and prepared himself for the confrontation. It had been a long day and

Dorrell was not in the mood to be dumped on. His face tensed slightly as he spoke.

“Speaker Basset was killed because he refused to cancel a public appearance. He was warned that we could not guarantee his safety, and he chose to ignore our advice.”

“That’s bullshit, Dorrell. He was killed because you and your men didn’t do your jobs.

It’s as simple as that.” Garret banged his fist on the table. Dorrell rose out of his chair to meet Garret eye to eye.

95

“Oh, no, you’re not.” Pointing his finger at Garret, he said, “I’m not going to sit here and let you hang the blame for this on me.” Garret interrupted Dorrell and shouted, “Agent Dorrell, you are in the White House, and I run the show around here. You will sit your ass back down right now and keep your mouth shut!”

“I don’t give a flying fuck if you’re the king of Siam! I told him it wasn’t a good idea to go out in public, and he ignored me. I did my job, and if Basset would have listened to me, he’d still be alive!”

Garret looked over at Director Tracy and screamed, “I want this man fired right now!”

Without waiting for Tracy to respond, Garret snapped his head around to Lortch and pointed at Dorrell. “Get him out of here now! I want his ass thrown out on the street!”

Dorrell went to step toward Garret, and Lortch rose out of his seat, blocking him. “Harry, it’s not worth it.”

“Bullshit, I don’t need this crap. I’ve been around too long to take shit from this little

Hitler.” Garret looked back at Director Tracy.

“I want him fired right now! I want his badge before he leaves this building.” Lortch pushed Dorrell out the door and closed it behind him.

Dorrell was shaking and his face was red from yelling. “Jack, I’m not going to take the blame for what happened to Basset.”

“I know, Harry. I know, just relax.” Dorrell took a couple of deep breaths. “I haven’t lost my temper like that in years.”

“You’ve had a long day, and Garret doesn’t usually bring out the best in people.”

“I can’t believe that guy. Does the President actually listen to him?”

“I’m afraid so.” Back in the Roosevelt Room, Mike Nance stood and gestured for

Garret to follow him.

He opened a door at the opposite end of the room and walked across the hall to the

Oval Office. Garret walked around the large table and through the door. When he entered the Oval Office, Nance closed the door behind Garret and stood staring at him for a full thirty seconds while he waited for Garret to calm down. In a steady voice Nance said, “Stu, you’ve got to learn to control yourself.”

“Mike, this whole damn thing is falling apart. We’ve lost Koslowski and Basset. Do you know what our odds are for getting him reelected with those two dead?” Garret held up his hand and formed a zero.

“They’re zip, Mike. You and I are going to be out of a job next year.

96

This whole thing is falling apart, and it’s because idiots like that Dorrell can’t do their job.” Nance looked at Garret and wondered momentarily if he really was nuts. “Stu, you have to get a hold of yourself. A lot of things could happen between now and election time.

Losing your temper doesn’t do us a bit of good. We have a lot of work to do tonight, so calm down. The important thing right now is to get the public behind us.

We have to find a way to turn this thing around. It’s not going to be easy, but we have to keep our heads.”

Garret nodded in agreement and Nance said, “Let’s go back in there and keep our cool.” Speaker Basset had left the Capitol’s underground parking garage in a black limousine less than twenty-four hours earlier.

He was now being returned in a black hearse. As the vehicle rolled to a stop, the back door was opened, and a special detail of six military personnel in dress uniform lifted the flag-draped casket out of the hearse and onto a gurney. After consulting with Speaker

Basset’s family, President Stevens had given the order to make arrangements for Basset to be included in the already planned ceremony for Senator Fitzgerald, Congressman

Koslowski, and Senator Downs. All four of the deceased had stated in their wills that they were to be buried in their home states.

With the obvious security issues arising from the string of assassinations, it was decided that it would be best to have Basset join his three fallen comrades rather than have a separate ceremony in two days. After a short elevator ride to the main level of the

Capitol, the gurney was discarded and the special detail carried the coffin down the hallway, across the cold, stone floor, and laid it on the rectangular, black catafalque. The four flag-draped coffins sat underneath the center of the Capitol’s large dome, each one pointing outward, marking the four major points of the compass. It was almost 10 A.M

and with the exception of a military color guard, the rotunda was void of all people.

One by one, the families were given a private moment alone, to mourn over the coffin of their deceased relative. Each family took about half an hour, and at noon the media was let in and allowed to start coverage of the event. The cameras started to roll, and the

Senators and Congressman filed in to pay their last respects. Just after 2 P.M the legislators were shuffled off into secure areas of the Capitol, and the doors were opened to the public. A steady stream of peoplefiled by the coffins until just after midnight, when the crowd started to thin.

Senator Erik Olson was sitting in his study trying to decide if he should go against the wishes of the President, the FBI, the Secret Service, and his wife. It was almost 1 A.M

and he couldn’t sleep.

97

Too much was on his mind. He knew that the right and honorable thing to do would be to walk behind the caissons as the procession of coffins were moved from the Capitol to the White House. The daring daylight assassination of Basset had made every

Congressman and Senator realize just how vulnerable they all were. Basset had been given more protection than any of his colleagues, and they’d still gotten to him.

Not only did they get to him, but they got away without a trace. The FBI and the

Secret Service were not taking any more chances, and the politicians who were still alive had become extremely agreeable in the wake of the recent events. Earlier in the day, when the final security arrangements were being made for the funeral procession, it had been decided by the Secret Service and the FBI that no one, not even family members, would walk in the open, behind the caissons. None of the senior Senators and

Congressman had argued. They were not eager to join the ranks of the fallen four. But for a variety of reasons, Olson felt that he should walk behind the caskets. First of all, it was a tradition that should be kept and honored, and secondly, he felt that someone needed to show that the government of the United States was not afraid. Someone needed desperately to look like a leader. Every politician in the country was cowering behind locked doors and bodyguards. Olson couldn’t blame them, especially the ones who had been unscrupulous during their time in Washington. The Senator from Minnesota had gotten along with all four of the dead men, but he held no false illusions about their character. They were four of the most unethical politicians in Washington. Olson was a historian by training and was more worried about the broad implications these murders would have on the future of American politics. History was the great teacher, he had always told his students. History repeated itself for many reasons. Mostly because people really hadn’t changed all that much over the course of modern civilization, and more so because history set precedents and gave people ideas. Olson did not want what was happening in his country to become a precedent. The events that had started the previous

Friday needed to be stopped and dealt with in a swift and just manner. There was no room in a democracy for terrorism.

Someone needed to stand up; someone needed to act like a leader.

Someone needed to walk behind those caissons tomorrow and show that he was not afraid. The silver-haired Swede pictured himself walking alone on the slow, one-mile journey and wondered if any of his colleagues would have the courage to join him. He started to mentally scroll through a list of names, searching for someone who would be bold enough to accompany him.

After a brief moment, a name popped into his head and he went no further. Reaching for his phone, he dialed the number. Michael patted Duke on the head and dropped his keys on the kitchen counter. As he picked up a stack of mail, he was relieved to see Liz’s purse sitting by the phone. O’Rourke quickly thumbed through the mail and then set the entire stack back on the counter. He yanked his tie off and started to unbutton his shirt as he headed for the stairs. Duke followed, and Michael stopped in the front entryway and said good-night to his canine buddy. It was late, he was tired, and he needed to talk to

Liz. Guilt was starting to weigh heavily on his shoulders. The young Congressman

98

plodded up the stairs and into his bedroom. Liz was sitting on her side of the bed reading a book and wearing one of his gray University of Minnesota Tshirts. Michael smiled at her and sat down on the edge. Liz set her book down and took off her glasses.

“You look like crap, honey.”

“Thanks,” O’Rourke grimly responded. He dropped his face into his hands and groaned. Rubbing his back, Liz asked, “What’s on your mind?”

Without raising his head he said, “I’d like to tell you about it but I don’t think I can.”

Liz threw off the covers and swung her bare legs off the bed. As Liz pulled him upright and took his hands away from his face, Michael was cursing himself for the way he had phrased his last comment.

The worst thing you can say to a reporter is that you know something but you can’t talk about it. “What is bothering you?” asked Liz.

Michael turned and kissed her on the lips. She returned his kiss for a second, then grabbed him by the chin and pushed him back. With her most serious look she repeated, “What is bothering you?” Deep down inside, Michael wanted to tell her, but he had to be careful. This would have to be handled in stages. “What would you say if I told youI

think I know who the assassins are?” Liz opened her eyes wide.

“You’re not serious?”

Michael nodded yes. Tucking one of her legs up on the bed, she moved back a foot.

“You are serious.” Michael nodded his head again. “Who are they?”

“I don’t think I should tell you.”

“Why?” asked an incredulous Scarlatti. “Because knowing who they are might drag you into this, and right now there is no telling where it’s going.”

“Are you going to talk to the FBI?” Michael looked down at the floor.

“No.” Liz got down on her knees and looked up at him. “You can’t be serious.”

“I am.”

“You have to go to the FBI, Michael! You’re a Congressman!”

“Darling, I’m not going to the FBI … at least not for now. And I don’t want you talking to anyone about this.” Scarlatti frowned and Michael said, “Liz, I confided in you because I trust you. Don’t mention a word of this to anyone.”

Reluctantly Liz said, “All right, all right… I won’t say anything.”

99

Liz reached up and ran her fingers through his hair. With a frown she asked, “Who are they?” Michael looked into her brown eyes and said, “For your own good I’m not going to tell you.” Liz began to protest but the moment was broken by the ringing of the phone. Michael looked for the cordless phone and realized it must be on the charger in the den. If someone was calling this late, it must be important. O’Rourke dashed down the hall and grabbed the phone. “Hello.”

“Michael, I’m sorry to bother you so late. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

It was Michael’s former boss, Senator Olson. “No … no, I was awake.

What’s up?” After an uncomfortable pause, Olson asked, “Michael, I need to ask you a big favor.”

“What can I help you with?”

“I’ve decided to walk in the procession from the Capitol to the White House tomorrow. and I was wondering. if you would walk with me?”

“I thought they weren’t going to let anyone walk.” O’Rourke had been given a memo at the office that described the agenda for the day’s events and stated that no

Congressman or Senators would be allowed to accompany the horse-drawn caissons to the White House.

“Michael, I am a United States Senator. No one is going to tell me I can’t walk in that procession. I’ve thought about it long and hard. I worked with those men for over thirty years, and although I didn’t particularly care for all of them, I still feel it is my duty to stand by them one last time.

Someone in this town needs to show a little courage.”

“Why would you risk your life trying to honor four of the most dishonorable men who have ever been elected to public office? They were a disgrace! I can’t believe you’re even considering it!” Olson almost lost his temper. “I’m sorry you feel that way, Michael.

If I had known you disliked them so much, I would not have asked you to join me.”

Without saying good-bye the Senator slammed the phone down. The line went dead and O’Rourke looked at the receiver, debating if he should call Olson back. He decided against it and set the phone down. He was torn between his loyalty to Olson and his disgust for what men like Koslowski had done to America and its political system. The thought of honoring them in any way made him tense with anger. The decision would be easy if it weren’t for the fact that Michael felt more indebted to Erik Olson than any other person in the world. Erik and Alice Olson had been best friends of O’Rourke’s parents.

After Michael’s parents died, the Olsons had stepped in to help fill the void for Michael and his younger brothers and sister. O’Rourke glanced over at a picture on the wall. It

100

was of his graduation from college, and he was flanked by the Olsons. O’Rourke continued to look at the other pictures and noticed that the Olsons were in many of them.

They had been there a lot over the last ten years-all of the birthdays and holidays where

Erik and Alice Olson had made the effort to act as parents for the parentless O’Rourke family. He drifted to another photo. A large, framed black-and-white his mother had taken just before her death. It was of the lake and woods in front of their family cabin in northern Minnesota. A fresh blanket of’ snow covered the frozen lake and hung heavy on the thick, green pine trees, weighing the branches down.

Taken after a snowstorm, the beautiful photo always reminded him of that sad time in his life. In the early years after his parents’ death, he had been tempted to take it down on many occasions because of the emotions it evoked, but he had kept it up out of respect for his parents and a belief that it was better to confront the pain and fear than run from it. As he stared at the photo on the wall, he thought about the funeral of’ his parents. He remembered standing in the cold cemetery, covered with snow, a crisp, cold wind coming out of the north and a dark, gray sky overhead. He stood over the graves while everyone else waited in the cars so he could say a last good-bye, alone. He couldn’t remember how long he stood there, only that it was cold and that his vision was blurred by the steady stream of tears that had filled his eyes. The memories flooded to the surface, and Michael remembered it was Erik Olson who had come to his side that cold day and led him away from the graves-back to his brothers and sister. Michael turned and saw Liz in the doorway. He held out his arms and they met halfway. Grabbing her tightly, he kissed her cheek and then whispered, I don’t ever want to lose you.”

FROM 10:30 A.M. TO ALMOST 11:30 A.M. SENATOR OLSON WAS

BESIEGED by everyone from his secretary to the President, all trying vigorously to dissuade him from walking in the procession. He stood his ground and refused to change his mind. The President called again just before the procession was to start, and after he failed to talk Olson out of it, the decision was made to let him have his way. At 11:55

A.M. four caissons, each pulled by three pairs of white horses, arrived at the foot of the

Capitol steps. Senator Olson stood off to the side and admired the precision of the young military men as they lifted each coffin off its catafalque and marched toward the door. As

Olson moved to follow the last coffin out the door, a warm hand was placed on his shoulder. The thin, small Senator turned to see the smiling and apologetic face of Michael

O’Rourke. “I’m sorry about last night, Erik.” Olson reached up and patted O’Rourke’s hand. “Thank you for coming, Michael. This means a lot to me.” The two men turned, walked out the door, and descended the Capitol steps. One by one each coffin was carried by its special detail and placed on top of the black, two-wheeled carriages.

As the last coffin was placed on its caisson, the order was given and a lone drummer started to beat out the cadence. Following military tradition, each caisson was followed by a horse and a soldier walking beside it.

O’Rourke, Olson, and four of the Senator’s bodyguards fell in behind the last riderless horse. Another command was given and the procession moved out to the beat of the drum. The street was lined with a large crowd of onlookers and media as the

101

procession traveled down Pennsylvania Avenue toward the White House at a somber, dignified pace.

The commentators covering the event for the networks commented at length that

Senator Olson was the only one of the remaining 531 Congressman and Senators who had elected to walk behind the procession.

O’Rourke was dismissed by all as one of Olson’s bodyguards. The large, red-brick colonial was located on a secluded four acres of rolling Maryland countryside that overlooked the Chesapeake Bay. There were estates just like it up and down the coast of the Chesapeake, some smaller and some bigger. None of them, however, were as secure.

Several years earlier, the owner had paid close to a million dollars to convert the turn-of-the-century house into a fortress. The bulk of the perimeter security system was composed of night-vision cameras, underground motion sensors, and laser-beam trip wires. The next line of security was in the actual construction of the house. All the windows were double-paned, bulletproof Plexiglas, and all the exterior doors were triple-hinged, two-inch-thick steel, covered with wood veneer and anchored into reinforced—

steel frames. Four bodyguards were present at all times. The owner was Arthur Higgins.

To those who knew him or had heard of him, he was known simply as Arthur.

He had unofficially worked for the CIA since its inception, and over the last forty—

some years he had done most of the Agency’s dirty work.

When Director Stansfield took over, Arthur was ordered to cease all association with the Central Intelligence Agency and all other United States government agencies. He had blatantly ignored the order. In the large library of the house, Arthur sat at his desk and watched the TV coverage of the funeral procession. He knew each of the men who had been killed, several of them well. He felt no sorrow over their deaths, and that didn’t surprise him. Arthur prided himself on being emotionless. He believed emotions were something that clouded one’s judgment. But when the face of Senator Olson came on the screen, Arthur’s eyes squinted tight, as he fought to suppress the anger rising up from within. Not many people in the world could elicit an instantaneous physical response from Arthur, but Senator Olson was one of them. Just before the procession reached the

White House, one of the commentators for CBS realized that the man standing next to

Senator Olson was not wearing a tan trench coat and sunglasses like the other four bodyguards! He was wearing an expensive black dress coat and a nice silk tie. After informing his producer of this obvious fact, the producer put his assistants to work trying to find out who this unknown man was. Minutes later, as the procession was arriving at the gates of the White House, CBS announced that Senator Olson was walking with

Congressman Michael O’Rourke, who was also from Minnesota. The cameras were naturally drawn to O’Rourke’s good looks, and the producers at every network scrambled to find out more about the unknown Congressman.

102

The procession stopped in front of the White House, and the four coffins were taken by their special details and placed on four black catafalques in the East Room.

The room was packed with leaders of foreign nations, Ambassadors, U.S. Supreme

Court justices, and a select group of U.S. Senators and Congressman, with the families of the deceased politicians sitting in the first several rows of chairs. When Olson and

O’Rourke entered the room, no chairs were left, so they stood in back with the other people who could not find a seat. After the last special detail had left, the congressional chaplain stood and read a long prayer for the repose of the souls of the four men.

President Stevens then stood and gave a surprisingly short, somber, and nonpolitical eulogy. He spoke only of the tragedy of death before its time, the importance of prayer, and helping the loved ones who were left behind heal properly. He was followed by several Senators and Congressman, who mentioned some touching personal moments, but who also stayed away from saying anything controversial.

All of the politicians who rose and spoke avoided the subject that was in the forefront of everyone’s mind, the subject that they were all afraid to broach, for fear of falling in the footsteps of the four dead men who lay before them. Senator Olson was the last to speak, and he directed all of his comments to the families of his deceased colleagues.

Once again, the flag-draped coffins were carried, one by one, out of the East Room, and this time were loaded into four black hearses that would deliver them to Andrews Air

Force Base. From there, they would each be loaded onto a C-141B Starlifter for the flight back to their home states. President Stevens was now taking the time to offer each family member his condolences as they stood to leave.

The crowd was starting to filter out into the hallway, and Olson turned to O’Rourke.

“Michael, I need to talk to the President for a minute. Would you like to meet him?”

O’Rourke looked down at his friend and then across the room at the President. “No, I’ll wait here.” Olson looked at the young O’Rourke, as he’d done many times before, and asked himself why Michael had decided to get into politics. “Have you ever met him before?”

“No.”

“Well, then come on.” Olson stepped away and waved his hand toward the President.

“I have no desire to meet him. I’ll wait for you in the hallway.” Olson knew by the look in the stubborn O’Rourke’s eyes that it was worthless to ask a third time. The Senator nodded his head and turned to make his way toward the President.

IT WAS DARK OUT WHEN O’ROURKE PARKED HIS DARK GREEN CHEVY

Tahoe in front of Scarlatti’s apartment building. He was thirty minutes late. Looking forward to spending some time with her, he’ bounded up the steps. He could always put everything else out of his mind and relax when he was with Liz.

103

O’Rourke knocked on the door, and a moment later it opened. Instead of greeting him with the usual kiss, Scarlatti turned and walked back into the apartment. O’Rourke picked up on the angry signal and tried to figure out what he might have done to upset her. He was almost always late, so it couldn’t be that. He followed her down the hallway and into the kitchen. “Liz, are you all right?” Scarlatti did not respond. She stirred the pot of noodles boiling on the stove. Michael grabbed her by the shoulders and turned her around. O’Rourke saw the tears in her eyes and tried to put his arms around her, but she backed away. “What’s wrong?”

“You have no idea, do you?” Scarlatti asked with a voice that was far from steady.

O’Rourke looked at her and shook his head. “I can’t believe you don’t know.” She started to shake her head back and forth, wiping the tears from her cheeks. “I’ll tell you what’s wrong, Michael.

You’re a Congressman, and if you haven’t noticed lately, there’s a group of people that are going around killing politicians and you happen to know who they are.” She shook her head at him and took a deep breath.

“Well, despite knowing there are people out there who would like to kill you, you decide to walk right down the center of Pennsylvania Avenue in front of thousands of people. Not only did you do that, but you didn’t even have the courtesy to call and tell me.” Liz paused again and stared at O’Rourke. O’Rourke looked down at her big, brown eyes and thought to himself, God, I don’t need this right now. The only thing that kept him from verbalizing it was that he knew she was right. “I was sitting in the newsroom, and someone ran up to my desk and told me you were on TV.

The next thing I knew, the commentator is saying that no one else would walk in the procession because the FBI thought it was too dangerous. I sat there for twenty minutes of hell.” Scarlatti stared at him as she tried to stop crying. O’Rourke went to step forward, but she put out her hand. “No, I’m not finished yet. I sat there praying that nothing would happen to you. Pictures of Basset getting his head blown off kept flashing across my mind. All I could think of was that I wasgoing to lose you.” She broke down and began to sob into her hands.

O’Rourke stepped forward and tried to wrap his arms around her. She pushed him away and walked to the other side of the kitchen, trying to gain some composure.

“Michael, you have no idea how much I love you.”

She looked up at the ceiling and paused. “Just last night you told me you never wanted to lose me. Well, how in the hell do you think I feel? Do you think I want to lose you? Did it ever occur to you to pick up the phone and let me know what was going on?

Did you ever stop and think about me today … about how I was feeling, wondering if someone was going to shoot you? How would you feel if it was me? How would you feel if I died? That would be it, Michael. Our future together would be gone and none of our dreams would be realized. We would never have the chance to have children and raise them, nothing.

104

Damn it, Michael, this is my life, too!” O’Rourke moved across the room and grabbed her. She tried to move away again, but he held on and pulled her into his chest. He whispered into her ear, “Honey, I’m sorry. I should have called, but I was never in danger.”

“How can you say you were never in danger. It’s been open season on politicians for the last week. They could have easily-“

Michael put his finger over her lips. “I know who they are, Liz … they would never do anything to harm me.”

The sun had risen again, and down in the subbasement of the White House a Secret

Service agent opened an obscure door for Stu Garret. The President’s chief of staff walked in and sat down next to another Secret Service agent. Garret grabbed a pair of headphones and put them on as he looked up at the bank of monitors.

President Stevens was standing in front of the fireplace in the Oval Office waiting for his breakfast appointment. A moment later, the door opened and Senator Olson entered the room. The President walked over and shook his guest’s hand. “Good morning, Erik.”

Garret could hear them talk as if he were standing right next to the two men. President

Stevens led Olson over to a small table that had been set for breakfast, and the two men sat down. A steward entered the room and started to serve the meal. Senator Olson received a bowl of oatmeal with a side of brown sugar and a halved grapefruit, while the

President received his usual bowl of Post Toasties with skim milk and a cup of fruit. The steward poured both men a cup of coffee and left the room.

The President dabbed the corner of his mouth with a napkin and said, “Erik, I would like you to know that I’m happy you’ve made the effort to come see me, especially in light of the current situation and the poor working relationship between our two parties.”

Olson nodded his head, signaling a frustrated understanding. “I’m glad you’ve agreed to see me, sir. I know these are hectic times for you.”

“They’re hectic for all of us.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” Olson sighed. “That is why I’m here this morning. The situation we are confronted with is bigger than partisan politics.” Olson stopped as though e were searching for the right Words to use. “I am very concerned about what might happen if certain members of my party propose that we implement some of the things this group is asking for.” The President raised an eyebrow at the comment.

“Considering the philosophical tenets of your party, and the stress that we are all

Under, I can see where that might become a possibility, one that I would not welcome.”

“Neither would I, sir.”

105

Olson glanced down at his oatmeal and then at the President. The President nodded, implying to Olson that he should continue. “Last Friday we started a new chapter in our country’s history, one that is potentially very dangerous. The idea that one small group can dictate, through violence, the policies of this country runs completely against all of the democratic principles upon which our nation was founded.

These acts of terrorism absolutely and emphatically cannot be tolerated if we want to leave a civilized and democratic nation for future generations of Americans.” The Senator paused for a second, then continued, “As you said earlier, the relations between our parties have been very strained as of late. Much of that has to do with the recent fight over your budget. It is my feeling that we must put those differences aside and move forward with a unified front. There will be some compromises that will have to be reached, but the important thing is that we cannot, for a minute, entertain the idea of appeasing these terrorists.” President Stevens leaned back in his chair. “I agree.

Appeasement is out of the question. That has been my official position from the outset. It does, however, worry me that you think certain members of your party may be willing to exploit this situation for personal and political gain. What do you propose our course of action to be?”

“I think we need to bring the leaders of both parties together and discuss what needs to be changed in your budget to guarantee a swift and resounding passage through both the House and the Senate.” Olson placed both elbows on the table and waited for the response. “Erik, I had enough votes to get my budget passed before this whole debacle started.

I’m not so sure I need to change it at all.” Olson looked straight into the President’s eyes. “Sir, if your budget was put to a vote today, it wouldn’t stand a chance of getting out of the House.

Koslowski and Basset are gone, and these assassinations have scared the hell out of the remaining Congressman. I’ve heard rumors that a few of them are contemplating quitting.” Olson paused to let his comments sink in. “The only thing that will get your budget passed is a strong, unified front from both parties, and that means some deals will have to be struck. I’m not saying that drastic changes need to be made, only that you will have to meet us halfway.” The President nodded his head positively. The proposal was beginning to make more sense. The two statesmen continued to discuss the formation of their new alliance, while several floors beneath the meeting the wheels were spinning in

Garret’s head. This might be the perfect way out, he thought to himself. Show a unified front with the President standing in the middle, holding both parties together. The public would eat it up.

Stevens would look stronger than ever. His approval rating would go through the roof, and no one from either party would be able to challenge him for a second term. And

106

that meant Garret could have any position-secretary of state, secretary of defense, whatever he wanted.

McMahon entered Director Roach’s office ten minutes late for their seven-thirty meeting. “Sorry, Brian, I got tied up trying to untangle a dispute, a dispute that I don’t have the time, energy, or political clout to deal with.” Roach was sitting at the conference table in his office. He had stacks of files laid out in an orderly manner in front of him. He preferred the large work surface of the conference table to his desk. McMahon plopped down in a chair at Roach’s end of the table.

Roach had a feeling that whatever was bothering McMahon was about to be dumped in his lap. “What’s the problem, Skip?”

“The problem is that no one from the President to Nance to the secretary of defense to the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, no one, and I mean no one, is cooperating in letting us take a look at the Special Forces personnel files.”

“Why?”

“In short, Brian … they’re in the business of trusting no one.”

McMahon shook his head several times. “I suppose they think we’re going to walk in the front door of the Pentagon with a hundred agents and start rifling through their top—

secret files. Whatever their reasons are, I don’t care. I need to start looking at those files, whether the brass is paranoid or not. I’ll work in conjunction with them, and try to step on as few toes as possible, but we have to be given access.” Roach nodded. I’ll look into it this morning and hopefully have an answer to you by this afternoon.

What else do you have for me?” McMahon handed his boss two files.

“These are the ballistics and autopsy reports for Basset. I received them late last night.”

“Anything unexpected?”

“One interesting point. The guys down in the lab are pretty sure the bullet was loaded with nitroglycerin.” The director’s eyes opened wider.

“Really?”

“Yep, it’s a pretty sure way to make sure one shot does the job, I suppose.”

“How does a person go about getting their hands on a nitro-tipped bullet?”

“We’re looking into talking to the people over at ATF, and they’re trying to put together a list of people who dabble in stuff like this.

107

They’re obviously illegal in the U.S but some of the guys in the lab seem to think there might be some small manufacturers abroad who do work like this.” Roach closed the ballistics report and placed it on top of a pile of files for later reading. “Interesting;

you may want to bring the CIA in on this. They’ve got a much better handle on the international side of this stuff than the ATF does.”

“I’ve already set the wheels in motion, which brings me to my next question.

McMahon paused while he shifted in his chair. “I would like to borrow Irene Kennedy from the CIA for a while.”

“You mean Stansfield’s expert on terrorism.”

“Exactly.”

Roach wrote himself a note. “I’ll call Stansfield as soon as we’re done.

I don’t think it’ll be a problem.”

“Good.” It was almost noon when Garret left the Oval Office to retrieve something from his office. The morning had been productive, and with the help of Olson, the coalition was coming together faster than expected.

All politicians, regardless of party affiliation, were scared, and the idea of strength in numbers was appealing. Garret entered his office and started sucking on a cigarette.

Several minutes and another cigarette later, Mike Nance entered and closed the door behind him. Nance saw the smile on Garret’s face and asked, “What are you so excited about?”

“I’ll tell you in a minute. What did you want to see me about?”

“I received a phone call last night from a friend … a friend who says he would like to sit down with us and discuss our options.”

“Who would that friend be?”

“Arthur,” responded Nance in a lowered tone. Garret thought about it for a minute.

“Did he say what it was about?”

“He doesn’t usually like to talk about things over the phone. He only said that he would like us to meet him at his estate tonight for dinner.” Garret shook his head. He wanted to meet Arthur, but tonight was out of the question. “Can’t do it, and neither can you. The President is going to read a prepared statement along with Senator Olson and several of both parties’ bigwigs tonight at eight.”

108

Garret stopped to see if the news would elicit any emotion from his calm friend. To

Garret’s slight frustration, Nance’s expression didn’t change. “The President is going to announce that he’s holding a closed-door summit at Camp David this weekend. He’s inviting the leadership from both parties. Senator Olson offered the olive branch this morning and we jumped all over it. They’re going to back the President in a show of unity against these terrorists and work together to pass his budget through the House and

Senate.”

“What are they asking for in return?”

“They’re going to ask for a few changes in the budget, but the bottom line is we’re going to come out of this deal looking like the great unifiers. Stevens’s approval rating will go through the roof.”

“That’s assuming you can keep all of these egos satisfied.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, it’s not going to be easy, but considering where we were twenty-four hours ago, this is a godsend.” Garret looked hard at Nance.

“Don’t ruin this for me yet, I need the energy to get through the day.

It’s going to be a long one.” Nance cracked a thin smile. “What would you like me to tell our friend?” Garret thought about the response.

“Tell him we’ll try to set it up for Saturday night. There’s a remote chance we might be able to sneak away from Camp David, but we can’t count on it.” Ann Moncur had announced to the press, just after 1 P.M that the President would be addressing the nation along with the majority and minority leaders of the House and the Senate at 8 P.M.

Instead of holding the meeting in the drab White House pressroom, Hopkinson had convinced Garret and the President to hold it in the ornate and stately East Room. They would stand where the coffins had been just one day earlier.

Hopkinson had told them the symbolism would not be missed by the press, especially after he spoon-fed it to several reporters who owed him favors. The President would be compared to the Phoenix, the legendary bird that rose out of the fiery ashes, stronger and more pure. The parallel would be drawn that the President, despite the trials and tribulations suffered over the past week, was rebounding as a stronger and better leader.

Hopkinson snickered to himself as he felt the rush and excitement that he got from manipulating public opinion. The media was already present and impatiently waiting for the new coalition to be unveiled. Copies of the President’s speech had already been distributed, and most of the reporters were reading it over.

Hopkinson stood in the doorway of the side entrance to the room, and at exactly 8

P.M he signaled the producers to go live. A moment later, the President entered the room with the ranking members of both parties following closely behind. The President took

109

his place behind the podium, and the party leaders fell in behind, providing the intended backdrop. With the look of a general about to go into battle, Stevens started his speech.

“Good evening, my fellow Americans. This past week has been a difficult one for our country. Our nation has lost some of its finest leaders. We have lost four men who gave everything they had to their country. our country. I would ask you, once again, to please keep these men and their families in your prayers.” The President paused and bowed his head briefly.

Hopkinson was standing off to the side, looking more like a stage director for a play than the White House communications director. Hopkinson nodded his approval that the

President had remembered the preplanned gesture of bowing his head as if in prayer.

Stevens had practiced the speech nine times. Each time, Hopkinson had meticulously analyzed every gesture and movement until he felt he had the desired performance. Now he stood and anticipated every preplanned head nod, hand motion, facial expression, and change of inflection in the President’s voice. Stevens looked back up and stared into the

TelePrompTer to his left. “During our history as a nation we have been confronted with some very trying times. We have always survived because of our strength and diversity.

We have survived because the leaders of our country have had the courage to put personal beliefs aside, come together, and do what is right for America. That is why we are here tonight.” The President turned and motioned to the men behind him. “The group that stands with me tonight represents the two parties that have helped shape America and make it great. During normal times it would be very difficult to get us to agree on almost anything, but when the very fabric that our democracy was woven from is threatened, we agree without a single deviance. That is why we have come together tonight. We have come together to announce that we are putting our differences aside and are going to move forward as a unified group. “We will not cower to the demands of terrorists. The survival of this country’s democratic principles is far more important than our individual beliefs.

Tomorrow afternoon, I will fly to Camp David with the leaders of both the House and the Senate. We will spend the weekend going over my budget and putting together a bipartisan agenda for the following year. We are the people who have been elected to run this government” - Stevens again turned and motioned to the men and women standing behind him-“and we will not be blackmailed by terrorists!”

As the President continued to speak, the blond-haired assassin looked at the TV and began to form a mental checklist of the things he would have to do before the sun rose.

He got off the couch and went to the basement of the apartment building. He stopped at his storage closet and checked to make sure the wax seal on the bottom door hinge had not been broken. After being satisfied that no one had entered his locker, he walked past four more doors and stopped in front of another closet, which was assigned to an elderly gentleman on the first floor. Again, he checked the wax seal on the bottom hinge, then picked the lock. Entering the ten-by-ten-foot closet, he walked to the back wall and moved several stacks of boxes, uncovering a stainless-steel trunk. It weighed almost fifty

110

pounds, but the assassin carried it up to his apartment without breaking a sweat. Setting the case down on the floor of his bedroom, he unlocked and opened it, retrieving a red, Gore-Tex ski jacket, a Chicago Cubs baseball hat, a pair of work boots, a brown, shoulder-length wig, a pair of nonprescription glasses, a large video camera, a small, red toolbox, and a large, black backpack. The man placed a pair of running shoes, tights, dark blue sweatpants, a sweatshirt, and a plain, dark baseball hat in the bottom of the backpack, then packed the rest of the equipment.

When he was finished, he pulled a strand of hair from his head and placed it next to a book on the coffee table. Looking around the apartment, he took’ note of where everything was, then grabbed the trunk and backpack. Locking the door behind him, he walked down to the basement and put the trunk back in the old man’s locker. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a black candle and lit it. When a small amount of wax had pooled around the flame, the assassin bent over and let a single drop run down the bottom hinge of the door. He checked to make sure the wax had properly dried, then headed up one flight of stairs, through the small lobby, and out onto the sidewalk. He was not a smoker, but he pulled a pack of Marlboros out of his pocket and lit one.

Standing casually, he puffed on the cigarette but did not inhale it.

His eyes narrowed as he methodically studied every window of the three apartment buildings across the street, looking for anyone standing in the shadows behind a curtain or the black, circular shape of a camera lens peering back at him. If the FBI was onto him, that was where they would be. He didn’t think they were, but he reminded himself that the whole idea behind surveillance was not to be seen. After finishing the sweep of the buildings, he tossed the cigarette butt into the street and walked away. He walked for almost eight blocks, turning at random to make sure no one was following. After he felt safe, he turned into a narrow alley and ducked behind two Dumpsters. Quickly, he put on the wig, hat, red jacket, and glasses. He emerged from the other end of the alley a different man. His stride was longer but slower, more gangly, less precise and athletic than before. Three blocks later, he stopped at a pay phone and punched in a series of numbers. The phone rang once and he hung up, waited thirty seconds, and dialed the number again. This time he let the phone ring five times before hanging up.

Two blocks later, he climbed behind the wheel of a beige Ford Taurus and drove off.

The two men were leaning on their pool cues and drinking a pitcher of Coors Light in the back room of Al’s Bar in Annapolis. Neither of them preferred the taste of Coors

Light, but they did like that it had such a low alcohol content. The larger of the two was lining up a combo when the digital phone on his hip rang once and stopped. Both men looked at their watches and counted the seconds. Thirty seconds later, they counted five more rings. Instead of leaving right away, they finished their game and switched to coffee. It was going to be a long night.

111

Ted Hopkinson strutted into the Oval Office as if he were floating on clouds. The

President was being attended to by one of Hopkinson’s assistants, who was wiping makeup off his ice. “Sir, you did a wonderful job. I haven’t seen the press this together on an issue in a long time.

They bought the whole speech, hook, line, and sinker.” Stevens showed a slight grin.

“Yes, it looks like it was a winner.” The President nodded toward the four TVs that were turned on. Only the sound on the one tuned to ABC was up. The White House correspondents for the three networks and CNN were all standing in different areas around the White House, giving their summation of the President’s speech. When they were finished, the anchors took over for their take on the event, and then the special analysts came on to give their two cents. The media loved it. The story just kept getting better and better, and with it, so did their ratings.

The public’s desire to watch this real-life drama was insatiable. When all the makeup was removed from the President’s face, he buttoned the top button of his shirt and slipped his tie back into a tight knot.

Hopkinson turned his attention away from the TVs and back to the President. “Sir, I

really think we’re going to see a big jump in your approval ratings tomorrow.” Garret and

Nance entered the room. Garret slapped Hopkinson on the back and congratulated him on a job well done.

Garret then nodded at the door, and the communications director grabbed his assistant and quietly retreated. Garret turned to Stevens and grinned from ear to ear. “Nice job, Jim.” Stevens looked up and smiled.

“Thank you.”

“I can’t believe the way this thing is coming together. The press is eating it up. If we can pass a budget, we won’t even have to hold an election next year.” Garret could barely contain his excitement.

The thought of locking up a second term this early was appealing. Not having to crisscross the country for three months campaigning was even more appealing. Sure, they would have to work a little, but not like last time. Instead of three states a day, and a speech every two hours for the last month, they could relax and run a TV campaign out of the White House. It would be so nice not to have to go out and press flesh with every

Tom, Dick, and Harry, Garret thought to himself. Nance was standing off to the side, watching the President and Garret. Nance let them continue to speculate about a second term for a minute and then stepped in. “I hate to ruin your little celebration here, but the elections are a long way off, and a lot could happen between now and then.” The comment got both Garret’s and the President’s attention, and both men became more serious. “You’ve done a great job solidifying this coalition on such short notice, and hopefully, if things go well, we’ll pull it off But, we need to understand that this new alliance could fall apart, just as fast or faster than it was put together.”

112

Nance paused for effect. “The New York Times printed a poll today that said over thirty-seven percent of the people they surveyed said the country had not suffered by losing Basset, Koslowski Fitzgerald, and Downes. I’m getting a sense that the common person is empathizing with these assassins. The people are fed up with politics as usual, and if we’re not careful, we’re going to turn these assassins into dragon slayers. We can’t ignore them. They are not just going to go away.”

Nance walked over to the fireplace, his hand on his chin and his forefinger tapping his lips. “They will strike again, and they will continue to strike until we give in or they get caught.” Nance turned around and looked at the President and Garret. “We’d better hope they slip up, because if they don’t, that alliance will crumble. None of those men have the guts to put their lives on the line if this thing gets any hotter.” The assassin sat in his car across the street from the local ABC studio. It was not the first time he’d waited for the news van to return from the White House, but it would be the last.

Just after midnight, the van that was assigned to the White House returned and drove into the underground parking garage. The assassin waited for another twenty minutes, then got out of the car, grabbing the video camera and backpack. As he walked across the street, he put the camera up on his right shoulder and tilted his head down. The brim of his hat and the camera screened his face. On his way through the front door, he passed a female reporter and cameraman on their way out.

They were both wearing red, Gore-Tex ski jackets with the ABC logo over their left breast. The assassin kept his head down and headed straight for the stairs leading to the underground parking garage.

When he reached the garage, he waved to the security guard, who was sitting in a room with a large glass window. The man had his feet up on the desk and was watching

TV. He casually looked up and, upon seeing the red jacket and camera, turned his attention back to the TV.

The assassin walked through the row of vans and cars and stopped when he reached the one with the right license plate. It took him less than thirty seconds to pick the lock.

Casually, he slid the door open and climbed in, closing it behind him. Setting the camera down, he grabbed an electric screwdriver out of his backpack and went to work. A

minute later, he popped the cover off the control board and started searching for the right wires. After finding them, he spliced several wires and carefully attached a transponder.

When he was done, he tested the transponder several times, then put the cover back on the control board. Packing up his gear, he stepped out of the van and locked the door.

Once again, he walked by the window on his way to the stairs, his face covered by the brim of his hat and the camera. Outside, the assassin climbed behind the wheel of the

Ford Taurus and drove west on K Street through downtown. It was almost 1 A.M. and the traffic was light.

113

Several miles later, he turned onto Wisconsin Avenue and headed north.

The pedestrian traffic was quite a bit busier in Georgetown, as the young professionals and college kids tried to get a head start on the weekend. Almost a mile later, he pulled into the Safeway on Wisconsin and Thirty-fourth Street. Even at this hour, the parking lot was half-full. That was what he wanted. If a cop drove by, he wouldn’t think twice about a man sitting alone in the parking lot of a twenty-four-hour grocery store. He would assume he was waiting for his wife, but if he was seen parked alone on a side street, that would be a different story.

He pulled the car into a spot up front and tilted the steering wheel all the way up. He took the wig, hat, and glasses off, placing them in a large, green trash bag. Next came the jacket, camera, and small toolbox.

Then he quickly took off the boots, followed by his pants and underwear.

He was naked from the waist down and put on the running tights and sweatpants.

Taking off the flannel shirt, he replaced it with the dark sweatshirt, put on the worn running shoes, and checked to make sure everything was in the trash bag, including the backpack. Backing out of the spot, he drove through the lot and pulled back onto

Wisconsin Avenue. The trash bag could have been thrown away in one of the grocery store’s Dumpsters, but the homeless people would find it, and homeless people talked to cops. The assassin had a small office building picked out about two miles away where the garbage was picked up on Friday mornings. Almost five minutes later, he pulled into the alley behind the small, brick building and stopped. Jumping out, he lifted the lid of the

Dumpster, shifted several bags to the side, and placed his bag inside, covering it up with the others. He gently let the lid of the Dumpster close, not wanting to make any loud noises, and got back in the car.

Within seconds he was back on Wisconsin and headed south. Several minutes later, he was winding through the small neighborhood of Potomac Palisades. When he reached the corner of Potomac Avenue and Manning Place Lane, he parked the car and got out, closing the door gently behind him. The temperature had dropped to around forty degrees, and a slight breeze was rustling the dry, fall leaves. The forecast called for fog in the morning, but there was no sign of it where he was, high on the bluffs above the

Potomac. On the other side of the street was a small boulevard of grass and then thick woods that led down a steep hill to the Potomac Parkway and then just beyond that to

Palisades Park and the Potomac River. He crossed the street and entered the tree line.

Finding a small footpath that he had used before, he zigzagged his way down the steep, forested hillside. Stopping just short of the road, he checked for the headlights of any approaching cars, then darted across the two-lane highway and down into a small ravine. Settling in behind a large tree and some bushes, he looked up at the underside of the Chain Bridge, which ran from D.C. into Virginia. The lights from the bridge cast a faint yellow glow that reached the tops of the trees above him and then faded before hitting the forested floor. Palisades Park was not your typical metropolitan park. There

114

were no softball diamonds or football fields. It was heavily wooded with a few jogging trails and some large patches of marshland. The assassin pressed the light button on his digital watch and checked the time. It was nearing 2 A.M. and his accomplices would be arriving shortly. Looking in the direction of the river, he could see a thin layer of fog spreading out across the floor of the forest. The noise of car tires on gravel caught his attention, and he looked up over the edge of the ravine. A blue-and-white Washington

Post newspaper van came to a stop, and a man dressed in blue coveralls quickly got out of the passenger side and slid open the door of the cargo area. Reaching inside, he grabbed two large, black duffel bags and ran to the tree line, setting the bags down about fifteen feet from where the blond-haired assassin was waiting. The man let out three curt whistles and waited for a confirmation. The assassin did the same, and the man walked away and climbed back in the van. Picking up the two large bags, the assassin placed the shoulder straps around his neck and let the bags rest on his hips. Next, he threaded through the woods and crossed under the Chain Bridge. The Potomac River was not navigable by anything other than a canoe or a raft at this point, and the river only ran under the far western end of the bridge. As the assassin worked his way toward the river, the trees became smaller and more sparse. By the time he reached the middle of the bridge, the fog was up to his waist.

Turning south, he walked about thirty yards and found a small clearing.

He set both bags down and opened the one on his right. The fog and darkness made his task more difficult, but he was used to working under strange conditions. Inside one of the bags was a small, gray radar dish mounted on a square, metal box, a car battery, some power cables and camouflage netting. The assassin hooked the car battery up to the radar unit and tested the power. When he was satisfied, he covered it with the camouflage netting and opened the second bag, pulling out a wooden board about three feet long.

Attached to the flat side of the board in an upright position were six plastic tubes about an inch in diameter and twenty-four inches long. Each tube was painted dull green and was loaded with a phosphorus flare. He pulled some small bushes out of the ground and placed them around the tubes so the open ends were pointed straight up into the sky. To the base of the makeshift launcher, he attached a nine-volt battery, and a small transponder.

The assassin checked everything over, making sure the transponders were operating properly, then grabbed the empty bags and started to weave his way back toward the eastern end of the bridge.

The MORNING SUN RISING ABOVE THE EASTERN horizon WAS INVISIBLE

because of the thick fog that blanketed the nation’s capital. Although the streets were quiet, there were signs that the morning rush of’ people heading to work was near. The blue-and-white Washington Post newspaper van pulled up to the corner of Maryland and

Massachusetts at the east end of Stanton Park. Both men got out of the van. The driver opened the back doors, and his partner walked over to the Washington Post newspaper box that was chained to the streetlight.

115

He got down on one knee and picked the padlock. A moment later it sprang open, and the chain dropped to the ground. He grabbed the box and carried it to the back of the van.

While he loaded it, his partner took an identical box and placed it where the other one had been. He checked several times to make sure the door wouldn’t open. After being satisfied, he pulled a remote control out of his pocket and punched in several numbers. A

red light at the top told him the small radar unit placed inside the empty box was receiving the signal. He nodded to his partner and they got back in the van. They were thankful for the cover that the fog provided, but were getting anxious. They would have liked to have started this part of the operation earlier but were forced to wait until the real

Washington Post vans had delivered Friday morning’s edition. With one more drop left, they drove around the south end of Stanton Park and turned onto Maryland Avenue. A

block later, they turned onto Constitution Avenue and headed west. As they neared the

White House, both men could feel their hearts start to beat a little faster.

The Secret Service paid close attention to the streets around the White House, and with the current heightened state of security, there was little doubt that they would be on their toes. If it weren’t for the fog, they wouldn’t risk dropping one of the boxes so close to the White House. The driver pulled up to the southeast corner of Fourteenth Street and

Constitution Avenue and put the van in park. The White House was less than two blocks away. Both men pulled their baseball hats down a little tighter and got out to repeat the drill for the last time. This was the fifth and final radar unit. The first two were placed on the other side of the Potomac River in Arlington, Virginia, one to the south and west of the White House and the other directly west. The third radar unit was placed to the north of the White House at the intersection of Rhode Island and Massachusetts. With the final two units in place to the south and east, the trap was completed.

Quantico Marine Air Station is located approximately thirty miles southwest of

Washington, D.C. The air station is divided into two parts: the green side and the white side.

The green side supports the base’s normal Marine aviation squadrons, and the white side supports the special Marine HMX-1 Squadron. The HMX-1 Squadron’s primary function is to provide helicopter transportation for the President and other high-ranking executive-office officials. The squadron’s main bird is the VHO3 helicopter. The VH-3s at HMX-1 are not painted your typical drab green like most military helicopters.

They are painted glossy green on the bottom half and glossy white on top. The

Presidential seal adorns both sides of the aircraft, and inside the cabin are a wet bar, state-of-the-art communications equipment, and plush flight chairs. These are the large helicopters that land on the South Lawn of the White House and transport the President to such places as Andrews Air Force Base and Camp David. The helicopter is typically referred to as Marine One in the same way the President’s 747 is referred to as Air Force

One. At first glance HMX-1 would seem like a cushy assignment for a Marine helicopter pilot—nothing more than an airborne limousine driver. In reality, it is the opposite. They are some of the best pilots the Marine Corps has to offer, and they are trained and tested

116

constantly in evasive maneuvers, close-formation flying, and zero-visibility flying. If there is an emergency and the President needs to get somewhere, it doesn’t matter if there’s a blizzard or a torrential downpour. HMX-1 flies under any weather conditions.

The squadron consists of twelve identical VH-3s. Two of the twelve birds and their flight crews are on twenty-four-hour standby at the Anacostia Naval Air Station, just two miles south of the White House. This precaution is a holdover from the cold war.

Standard operating procedure dictates that in the event of an imminent or actual nuclear attack, the President is to be flown on board Marine One, from the White House to

Andrews Air Force Base. From there, he is to board Air Force One and take off. As far as the public is concerned, no President has had to take this apocalyptic journey for reasons other than training. Despite the fall of the Iron Curtain, the drill is still practiced frequently by the Marine Corps and Air Force pilots. All ten of the VH-3s at HMX-1

were to be used in today’s flight operations, and their flight crews were busy checking every inch of the choppers, prepping them for flight.

The two helicopters at Anacostia would stay on standby and be used if any of the ten developed mechanical difficulties. It was just after 8 A.M and the rising sun had burned off most of the fog. Small pockets were left, but only in lowlying areas. The visibility had improved enough that the’ control tower decided to commence the transfer of the

CH-53 Super Stallion helicopters from the New River Air Station to Quantico. A total of forty of the dull green monsters were flying up from Jacksonville, North Carolina-four for each of the VH-3s that would be ferrying the President and his guests from the White

House to Camp David. The doors to the hangar were open, and the roar of helicopters could be heard in the distance. Several of the mechanics walked out of the hangar to look at the approaching beasts. It was a sight they never got tired of. The Super Stallion was a tough-looking chopper.

It had the rare combination of being both powerful and sleek and was one of the most versatile helicopters in the world. The CH-53s rumbled in over the tops of the pine trees in a single-line formation at about 120 knots.

The choppers were spaced in three-hundred-foot intervals, and the column stretched for over two miles. Their large turbine engines were thunderously loud in the cool morning air. One by one they descended onto the tarmac and were met by Marines wearing green fatigues, bright yellow vests, and ear protectors. The ground-crew personnel waved their fluorescent orange sticks and directed each bird into the proper spot. As each chopper was parked, the engines were cut and flight crews scampered under the large frames to secure yellow blocks around the wheels.

The traffic between Georgetown and the Capitol was never good, but in the morning it was almost unbearable. O’Rourke limped along in his Chevy Tahoe, thankful that the height of the truck allowed him to feel a little less claustrophobic. Senator Olson’s recent attempts to form a coalition with the President had Michael worried. O’Rourke desperately wanted to talk to his old boss before he left for Camp David. Grabbing his

117

digital phone, the young Congressman punched in the numbers for Erik Olson’s direct line, and a second later the Senator answered. “Hello.”

“Erik, it’s Michael. Are we still on for lunch Monday?”

“Yes, I’ve got you down for eleven forty-five.”

“Good.”

O’Rourke took a deep breath. “Erik, I’m a little troubled by this alliance that you’re helping to form. What exactly do you hope to accomplish this weekend?”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you guys going to make any effort to cut the budget, or are you all going to scratch each other’s back and put the country another half trillion dollars in debt?”

Olson was caught off guard by the blunt comment. “Michael, things are very complicated right now. and considering our current national security crisis, a balanced budget is the least of my concerns.”

“Erik, the most serious problem facing our country today is the national debt, not the fact that a couple of corrupt and self-serving egomaniacs were killed.” Olson paused before answering. He did not want to be drawn into a fight with O’Rourke. “Michael, I

understand your concern, but the important thing for America right now is to stop these terrorists, and the first step to doing that is to show a unified front. We cannot be threatened into reforms. This is a democracy.”

“So you’re not going to suggest any budget cuts.” O’Rourke made no attempt to hide the disgust in his voice. “Michael, there are more important things for us to worry about right now than a balanced budget.”

“That’s bullshit, Erik. You know it, and I know it. Look at the damn numbers. Now is our chance to do something about it!”

“Michael, right now the national debt is of secondary concern. The important thing is to not appease terrorism.”

“Erik, why are you so dead set on calling these people terrorists?

They haven’t killed any civilians. They killed four corrupt politicians who have abused and manipulated the powers of their office-four politicians who have mortgaged the entire future of this country so they could keep their special-interest groups happy and get reelected.”

“Michael, I won’t listen to you talk about those men that way!”

118

Olson’s voice became shaky. “It’s the truth, Erik. Don’t turn these guys into something they weren’t, just because they were assassinated.”

Olson paused for a moment. “Michael, let me tell you something. I love you like a son, but you have a lot to learn. I’ve been in this town for over thirty years, and things aren’t always as simple as you make them out to be.” It was O’Rourke’s turn to raise his voice. “Do you want to hear simple, Erik?

I’ll give you simple. Over the last twenty years, you and all of your colleagues have spent our country into a five-trillion-dollar black hole. During that time we weren’t confronted with a serious economic crisis or a major war. You had no valid reason to spend that kind of money. I know you weren’t a willing participant, but the harsh reality is that you were there and you didn’t stop it. You have run up a five-trillion-dollar tab, and you’re all going to retire and stick us with the bill. That is the legacy that you will leave for your children.” O’Rourke paused for a second. “Shit, even now, with someone threatening your life, you aren’t willing to do the right thing. This is your last chance to do something about the mess you’ve created. Don’t let it slip away!” O’Rourke hit the end button on his phone and swore as he slammed on his brakes to avoid hitting a bicycle messenger who had cut in front of him. The truck came to an abrupt halt as its driver gripped the steering wheel tightly with both hands.

Through clenched teeth O’Rourke asked himself out loud, “What is it going to take for these guys to do their jobs?” Olson stared at the receiver and then gently placed it in its cradle. Why were the Irish so damn emotional, he thought to himself. He knew

O’Rourke was right about the debt, but violence was not the answer. The system needed time to correct itself.

It did not need to be jump-started by terrorism and threats. Law and order needed to be maintained. After about ten seconds, he opened his bottom desk drawer and pulled out a file marked “National Debt.” One of his staffers gave him monthly updates on the debt and the projections for the future. Olson opened it and looked over the summary page.

The official numbers provided by the Stevens administration put the national debt at around $5.2 trillion. Olson knew this number did not represent the total national debt.

Money had also been borrowed from the Social Security fund, and knowing the government’s track record on underestimating the cost of programs, he figured the debt was probably closer to $6 trillion. He quickly glanced over some estimates of what the debt would do over the next five, ten, fifteen, and twenty years.

The numbers were truly horrifying. O’Rourke was right. If it wasn’t confronted, it would eventually bring the country to its knees. A bankrupt America was not the legacy he wanted to leave for his grandchildren, but neither was an America that tolerated terrorism.

Jack Lortch climbed up the last flight of stairs and onto the roof of the White House.

Special Agents Sally Manly and Joe Stiener followed as Lortch surveyed the rooftop

119

scene. He was pleased to see that the six counter-sniper agents already on the roof were at their posts and watching their area of responsibility. Lortch was under a lot of stress and was trying his best to look calm. Joe Stiener went into the small guardhouse and filled up three cups of coffee, handing one to his boss, one to Manly, and keeping the other for himself. Lortch walked over to the south edge of the roof and looked up at the gray sky.

Stiener and Manly stood several steps behind their boss and said nothing. After the sun had burned off the early-morning fog, it had looked as if it would be a bright day, but then, just before ten, a thick blanket of high, gray clouds moved in. A slight wind was coming from the southwest at about five to ten knots. Lortch’s gaze shifted from the sky to the treetops, and he couldn’t help but notice the bright fall colors of the changing leaves. While sipping his coffee, he thought about how little he’d slept the past week. He was nearing the end of his rope and was looking forward to handing the President off to the Camp David team and getting some much needed sleep. But before he could do that, he had to get the President to Camp David in one piece.

Late the previous evening, they had met to discuss security arrangements, and Lortch had recommended to the President that the meetings be held at the White House instead of Camp David. Garret had shot the idea down before the President had a chance to think it over.

Garret had said, “Jim, the public needs to see that you’re not confined to the White

House. They need to see you get on board Marine One and fly off to Camp David for the weekend. It will make you look like a leader, and besides, Camp David is more secure than the White House.”

It was debatable whether Camp David or the White House was more secure, but that wasn’t the issue. The real security threat came in flying the President from the White

House to Camp David. Lortch had been briefed by McMahon on the assassinations and was mystified that, whoever these people were, they had been able to kill four high-ra king politicians and not leave a single clue worth beans. He was impressed with the skill and professionalism of the killers and afraid that the President would be their next target.

These assassins had shown their ability to think and plan ahead, and it worried Lortch that, as usual, the President’s itinerary was public information. The assassins would know approximately when the President was leaving the White House and when he would be arriving at Camp David. In Lortch’s line of work he had to assume the worst. For that reason, he was taking extra precautions today. Lortch looked down at the reporters and photographers who were staking out positions on the west side of the South Lawn. Lortch shook his head in frustration He hated the press. If he had it his way, he’d ban them from the White House compound. They did nothing but make his job more difficult. It was

10:48 A.M. and the President’s weekend guests were starting to arrive for the 11 A.M.

lunch and photo op. A large black limousine pulled into the White House compound and drove up the executive drive. Lortch watched his agents perform their duties with their usual precision. He glanced around the roof to make sure his other agents were staying focused on their area of responsibility and not looking at the new arrivals. The back door of the limo opened and Senator Lloyd Hellerman stepped out. Four of Lortch’s tallest agents surrounded the Senator and ushered him toward the White House.

120

The media stayed where they were supposed to, but shouted questions as Hellerman was rushed toward the door. The Senator looked toward the media and slowed for a second. The two agents on the left and right grabbed Hellerman by the biceps and kept him moving through the doorway and into the White House. Lortch had given his people specific instructions: “I don’t want anyone standing around outside. As they arrive, get them from the limos into the building as quickly as possible.” The South Lawn of the

White House was secure, but Lortch wasn’t going to take any unnecessary chances. He turned to one of his two assistants. “Joe, how are things going down at Quantico?” The

Secret Service agent put his hand over his earpiece. “They’re going through their preflight briefing right now.”

Lortch nodded his head and asked Sally for her binoculars. He started to scan the rooftops of the buildings to the east. “How are our sniper teams doing?”

“They’re in position,” answered Agent Stiener. Lortch turned to the north and continued to look at the rooftops. “What about the ground teams?”

“They’re ready to move out whenever you want.” Lortch lowered the binoculars and thought about it for a minute. “Move them into position at eleven-fifteen. Remind them, if they see anyone carrying anything larger than a briefcase, I want them searched. And don’t forget to remind them not to look at the choppers as they fly in and out. I need them looking at the street.” Lortch stopped and looked down at the gate as another limo pulled up. The photographers started snapping photos and the reporters started to speak into the cameras.

Lortch looked at the news vans that were parked off to the side and pointed at them.

“Joe, remind Kathy and Jack to do a lockdown on those vans and take them off their live feeds before the first chopper lands.

That’s before, not during.” Lortch turned to Agent Manly. “Sally, what’s the situation with the advance team at Camp David?”

“So far so good. The six Marine recon units out of Quantico were inserted by helicopter about two hours ago. They’ve got the hilltops along the approach route secured, and they’re scouting the valleys for any potential hostiles.”

Lortch nodded his head. “Nice work so far. Let’s stay sharp.”

HMX-1 did not have a briefing room large enough to accommodate all one hundred pilots involved in today’s flight operations, so folding chairs were set up in the corner of the hangar and the maintenance crews were asked to stop all work on the choppers while the briefing took place.

The first several minutes of the briefing were handled by the ODO, or operations duty officer, who briefed the pilots on the weather conditions. The pilots sipped coffee and

121

listened respectfully-some took notes on their knee boards while others memorized the details.

With the advent of shoulder-launched, surface-to-air missiles such as the American

Stinger, the Secret Service had been forced to find a safer way to transport the President on board Marine One. In times of heightened security they implemented what the Marine pilots referred to as “the shell game.” This was a tactic developed by HMX-1 during the early years of the Reagan administration. Multiple Marine Ones would land, one at a time, at the White House or wherever the President was, and then take off, every helicopter heading in a different direction.

The intended result was to confuse any would-be terrorist or assassin about which helicopter the President was on. This tactic was used often with only two or three VH-3s.

When the President’s itinerary was known in advance, and there was a heightened terrorist alert, HMX-1 called in the CH-53s for escort duty. Escort was a kind description of the Super Stallions’ job. The pilots of the drab green helicopters knew their real job was to shield the President’s helicopter from a missile. This was accomplished by flying in a tight formation with Marine One in the middle surrounded by four Super Stallions.

Tight-formation flying with choppers as big as the VH-3 and the CH-53 was not an easy thing. Because of this, the Marine Corps saw to it that their pilots were drilled frequently in today’s exercise. The last thing the illustrious group of warriors wanted to be remembered for was killing the President in a midair collision. After the weather briefing was finished, the squadron commander, a Marine colonel, took over. He handed out the flight assignments and got down to the nuts and bolts of the briefing. Ten VH-3s were flying today, and they were designated by their order of takeoff as Marine One, Marine Two, Marine Three, and so on. For training purposes the CH-53s were already split into groups of four. The first four that landed this morning were to escort Marine

One, the second four were to escort Marine Two, and so on. The batting order was announced, and each division, which consisted of one VH-3 and four CH-53s, was given its bearing on which it was to leave the White House. Because it would take almost twenty minutes from the time the first VH-3 took off from the South Lawn to the time the last one did, the divisions were given different flight paths from the White House to

Camp David. If all ten divisions left the White House and flew along the same flight path, it would give a terrorist time to move into position and take a shot at one of the later groups.

The blond-haired assassin was wearing contact lenses that made his blue eyes look brown. Once again his face, neck, and hands were covered with brown makeup, and a short, Afro wig was covering his hair.

He exited George Washington Memorial Parkway and pulled the maroon van into the

Glebe Nature Center. Finding a space close to the edge of the riverbank, he parked the van by a small, stone wall. About a mile to his south was the Key Bridge, and below him and just to the north was the Chain Bridge. Climbing into the back of the van, he turned on the control board and monitors. The van had been purchased with cash from a

122

bankrupt TV station in Cleveland four months earlier. The small satellite dish on the roof pulled in the broadcast signals from the three networks and CNN. He was only concerned with CNN’s and ABC’s broadcasts. He put those two on the top monitors. CNN was giving a live update from the South Lawn, while ABC was still showing its regularly scheduled program. Reaching to his right, he dialed ABC’s live-feed frequency into the receiver. The signal was fuzzy at first, but after some fine-tuning the picture became clear. The White House correspondent for CNN was speaking from the South Lawn, so the assassin turned up the volume and listened. “The President’s guests have been arriving now for the last fifteen minutes or so.” The reporter looked over her shoulder and gestured at another limousine pulling up.

“Security is very tight and tensions seem to be running high. The President is scheduled to sit down for a light lunch with the leaders of both parties shortly. After lunch, probably sometime around noon, they will be boarding helicopters and flying to

Camp David for the weekend.” The anchor in Atlanta thanked the reporter for the story and broke away for a commercial. The assassin checked his watch and leaned against the small back of the control chair. It would be another hour before the action started. The

President and the leaders from both parties were sitting around the large conference table in the Roosevelt Room, while Navy stewards served lunch and photographers from the press pool snapped pictures. They sat in a prearranged order, Republican next to

Democrat, adversary next to adversary. This was done to give the impression of genuine unity within the group. Several reporters stood in the corner and shouted questions that were ignored. The event was a photo op, not a press conference, but as was always the case, the reporters who handled the White House beat asked questions regardless of what they were told to do. The constant flurry of questions and the politicians’ refusal to answer them made for an awkward situation as the cameras continued to flash away. The political leaders sat at the table and smiled at one another, trying to look good for the cameras.

As each question was half shouted at the group, the participants looked to the

President to see if it would be answered. Etiquette dictated that no one answer anything unless the President answered first or gave the approval for someone else to speak.

One of the photographers broke away from the pack and walked around to the other side of the table so she could get photos of the men sitting across from the President.

Stevens noticed this and became uncomfortable. During the last several years, the small bald patch on the back of his head had grown significantly. Stevens had become increasingly insecure about this simple fact of aging and as a result made a conscious effort not to be photographed from behind. Before the photographer could move into position, the President looked up at Moncur and said, “Ann, I think that’s enough.”

Moncur stepped in front of the cameras and reporters and escorted them to the door.

When the door was closed, everyone looked around the room to make sure none of the reporters had stayed behind. Once they were sure they were alone, the mood changed immediately. The fake smiles vanished and the conversation picked up. There were a lot

123

of deals to be made before the weekend was over. About twenty minutes later, Jack

Lortch entered the room and asked for the President’s permission to address the group.

Everyone stopped talking while Agents Manly and Stiener walked around the table and handed each person a piece of paper. “Ladies and gentlemen, this sheet lists which helicopter you will be flying on and who you will be flying with. If you’ll notice, the

President is not on this list, and there is no one listed as flying on the last helicopter.

For security reasons we will not announce which helicopter the President will be on until the last minute. If we decide to put him on the first helicopter, all of you will be bumped to the next chopper, and if we decide to put him on the fifth helicopter, those flying on helicopters five, six, seven, eight, and nine will be bumped to the next flight.”

Lortch quickly glanced around the room to make sure everyone was with him. “The helicopters will be coming in at quick intervals, so I would ask that you be ready to go when your helicopter lands. When your helicopter lands, Secret Service agents will escort you to the chopper and a Marine will help you get situated and buckled in …. Do any of you have any questions?”

Lortch again looked around the room and noticed with satisfaction that the mood had become more serious. He turned to the President. “Sir, that’s all I have for now.” The

President thanked Lortch, and the agents left the room. Lortch was walking down the hallway, telling Manly and Stiener several more things that he wanted checked, when Stu

Garret approached from the opposite direction and stopped them. “Have you decided which helicopter the President is flying on?”

“No, I haven’t.”

Garret looked at his watch. “We’re supposed to start this whole show in thirty minutes and you haven’t made up your mind?”

“No, I haven’t decided yet, Stu, and if you’d please excuse me, I have a lot of things to take care of.” The increasingly impatient Lortch stepped around Garret and continued down the hallway. Lortch had decided after witnessing Garret’s unwarranted and childish temper tantrum two evenings earlier that it was time to be more firm with the temperamental chief of staff.

The elderly-looking gentleman parked his rental car by the front gate of Arlington

National Cemetery and got out. He was wearing a tan trench coat, an English driving cap, and using a cane that he didn’t need. On the lapel of his trench coat was a veteran’s pin and an American flag.

He smiled and nodded to the guard at the main gate as he entered the cemetery and started the climb up the hill to the Kennedy Memorial and Robert E. Lee’s house. He looked at the rows of tombstones as he walked up the slope and said a quick prayer for his fallen comrades as he went.

124

This national shrine, this place of honor, had an unearthly feel to it.

He did not see his friends die all those years ago so America could be destroyed by a bunch of self-serving politicians. When he reached the front yard of Lee’s house, he turned and looked to the east. Beneath him, across the river and beyond the Lincoln

Memorial, he could see the White House. He situated himself beneath a large oak tree and leaned against its trunk. A short while later, he heard a rumble in the distance and turned to the south. Beyond Washington National Airport, he saw the first formation of helicopters moving up the Potomac. The four large, dull green helicopters surrounded the single shiny, green-and-white Presidential helicopter. As they reached the Potomac

Railroad Bridge, the formation gained some altitude, passed over the Jefferson Memorial, and came to a stop over the Tidal Basin, which sat between the Jefferson Memorial and the Mall. The old man looked back and forth between the five helicopters and the White

House. He saw more movement to the south and turned again. Two more formations were working their way up the Potomac, and the first of these two stopped just on the south side of the Potomac Railroad Bridge. A third appeared farther down the river, and then a fourth and a fifth just where the river started to bend back to the west and out of view.

All five of the formations were holding their positions with about two hundred feet of separation. The noise of their large twin turbine engines and the thumping of their rotor blades echoed throughout the Potomac River Valley. From his perch on the roof of the

White House, Lortch could see and hear the helicopters just to his south. The Tidal Basin, in front of the Jefferson Memorial, was approximately a half mile away, and the five helicopters held their position directly over it, waiting for the order to proceed to the

White House. In the distance Lortch could see the second group of choppers hovering. He looked toward the Mall and focused his binoculars on a group of Park Police officers who were in charge of securing the area from the Capitol to the Lincoln Memorial. Most of them were staring at the loud choppers hovering over the Tidal Basin. Turning to Manly, he said, “Sally, get on the radio and remind the people on the street that they are to pay attention to what is going on around them and to ignore the choppers. Agent Stiener was scanning the surrounding rooftops with his binoculars, and Lortch tapped him on the shoulder.

“Joe, tell Kathy and Jack to take the networks off their live feed.” Stiener lowered his binoculars and spoke into his mike. Special Agents Kathy Lageski and Steve Hampson were standing by the news vans talking to each other when they received the order from

Stiener. Out of habit, both agents brought their hands up and pressed down on their earpieces as Stiener gave them instructions. Without pause, Lageski and Hampson turned and went to work. Lageski started with the CNN van and approached the producer who was sitting at the control board. “Tony, we have to take you off the air.” The producer nodded to Lageski and then spoke into his headset, “Ann, they’re taking me off the air.

I’m going to tape.”

The producer waited another couple seconds and then started to flip switches. Before shutting down the live feed, he put in a fresh tape and checked to see if it was recording

125

properly. Lageski watched over him as he turned off the power on the transmitter that sent out the live signal. After the producer was finished, he stepped out of the van and

Lageski shut the door. “Tony, if you need to get back in there, ask me first.” The producer nodded and Lageski moved on.

Stiener informed Lortch that the networks were off their live feed, and the special agent in charge looked down at the news vans and then up at the first group of helicopters hovering less than a mile away. “Are our guests ready to go?” Stiener raised his mike to his mouth and relayed the question to one of the agents downstairs. A moment later he looked up at his boss.

“They’re all set downstairs.”

“Good, send in the first group, Sally.”

Agent Manly gave the order and then asked Lortch, “Which bird do you want to put

Tiger on?” Tiger was the code name that the Secret Service used for the President. Lortch thought for a moment. “Let’s go with number three. Don’t let anyone know until number two lands.”

The old man leaned against a tree and looked intently at the five helicopters hovering by the Jefferson Memorial. He hoped that the pilots flying those things were as good as he’d been told. He did not want to see any Marines die.

The choppers started to move north toward the White House, and the old man pulled a digital phone out of his pocket, punched in a phone number, and hit the send button. He let the phone ring four times and hung up.

The assassin looked at the digital phone sitting on the control board and counted the rings. When it stopped after the fourth one, he dialed in a frequency code on the control board and pressed the send button.

The signal was received less than a second later, and the transponder that was planted in the ABC van the previous evening kicked in. The power to the transmitter was restored, and the live feed was back on line. A couple of seconds later, the bottom left monitor went from a fuzzy, gray picture back to a clear picture of the South Lawn. Lortch watched the choppers as they flew across the Mall toward the White House. As they approached, the rotor wash became intense. Lortch’s tie started to flap up into his face, and he reached down, tucking it into his shirt. The lead Super Stallion hovered directly over Lortch’s head as the shiny green-and-white VH-3 in the middle descended and landed gently. The four ominous, loud Super Stallions held their positions hovering about two hundred feet above the ground, waiting for the VH-3 to ascend back into the formation. Lortch looked down and watched eight Secret Service agents escort the first two passengers to the foot of the VH-3. A Marine helped the two VIPS into the helicopter

126

and then pulled up the steps and closed the door. Even over the loud roar of the Super

Stallions, Lortch could hear the VH-3 increase the power of its engines.

The executive helicopter gracefully lifted off the ground and stopped at an altitude even with her escorts. She hovered for a brief moment, then all five helicopters simultaneously banked to the right and headed northeast. As the choppers increased power and passed over the White House, Lortch and the other agents widened their stances to steady themselves against the intense rotor wash. The next group of helicopters was already passing the Washington Monument and moving toward the White House.

There was a brief moment of relative silence as the rumble of the first group lessened in the distance and the roar of the approaching group grew. Manly turned to Lortch and

Stiener.

“God, those damn escorts are loud.” Lortch and Stiener nodded their heads in agreement. The next formation swooped in over the South Lawn a little faster than the first, and the VH-3 wasted no time dropping rapidly and performing a quick, controlled landing. Once again the passengers were escorted by Secret Service agents to the chopper and loaded on board. The VH-3 lifted back into formation, and without pausing, all five helicopters banked to the left and continued to bank as they came back around to a southwesterly course, passing over the Reflection Pool. The next formation was moving toward the White House and Lortch looked at Manly. “Is Tiger ready?”

Manly nodded her head yes. President Stevens strode across the South Lawn wearing a dark wool suit with a faint gray pinstripe, a blue pinpoint oxford, and a deep red tie.

Surrounding him were six Secret Service agents, the one just behind him carrying a bulletproof tan trench coat, ready to throw it over the President at the slightest sign of trouble. Garret walked on the left side of the President so as to avoid getting between his boss and the cameras. Stevens smiled broadly and waved to the cameras and reporters.

He and Garret had debated whether he should give the press his serious and determined look or his happy and excited look before getting on board Marine One. Garret suggested a combination of the two-a happy and determined look. The President, being the consummate actor, understood completely the subtle difference between happy and excited and happy and determined. As they reached the helicopter, Stevens stopped and snapped off a sharp salute to the Marine in dress blues standing at the foot of the steps.

The crew chief, a Marine corporal wearing an in-flight headset, tan, long-sleeve shirt, and blue pants with a red stripe, met Stevens at the top of the steps and helped him through the small doorway. Garret, the Secret Service agent carrying the tan trench coat, and another agent came through this door, and the other four came on board through a second door that was located just behind the port-side wheel flange.

Normally only one agent would fly with the President and the rest of the detail would follow in the next chopper, but times were far from normal. The two doors, with steps built into them, were pulled up quickly and secured. Everyone took his seat while the crew chief made a quick pass to make sure everyone was strapped in. Before taking his own seat, he spoke to the pilots over the in-flight headset, telling them they were buttoned up and ready to go. The helicopter leapt into the air and rose up into the middle

127

slot of the formation. Stevens looked out his small, starboard window and was surprised at how close the large, green helicopters were.

Unlike most military helicopters, the inside of Marine One was soundproofed against the noise of the large engines and the rotors, so conversation could take place without having to shout. The President looked to Garret and pointed out the window. “Stu, did you see how close this thing is?” Garret shrugged his shoulders. “You know how these flyboys are. They’re probably just trying to show off.” The digital phone started to ring in the old man’s pocket. He made no attempt to answer it. Staring at the four dull green helicopters that were hovering above the White House, he counted the rings. The call was a signal telling him that the President was on board the helicopter that was about to rise back into the formation. After the third ring he opened the left side of his trench coat.

Taped upside down to the inside of his jacket was a small, black box. The face of it contained a number pad, an enter button, and a power switch. The old man reached inside with his right hand and flipped the power switch to the on position. He glanced around to see if anyone was watching, then returned his attention to the helicopters hovering over the White House. He saw the green-and-white VH-3 rise into the air and punched two numbers into the remote, but did not hit the enter button. He had to wait until the formation started to move, otherwise the President’s helicopter would drop straight back down into the relative cover of the White House compound. The noses of the helicopters dipped slightly and the group began to move. The old man hit the enter button and said a quick prayer.

The signal was received a second later by the tiny surface-to-air radar unit that had been placed in the Washington Post newspaper box two blocks to the south of the White

House. The unit immediately started to sweep its wide-band search radar over the formation of helicopters.

The band narrowed in less than two seconds from acquisition, to track, to fire control.

Simultaneously, inside the cockpits of all five helicopters, missile warning lights began flashing, and the onboard threat sensors came screeching to life. The loud wailing of the threat sensor told them that they were being illuminated by fire-control radar.

There was no time to think, only time to react as their training had taught them. Heart rates quickened and heads snapped around to see if a missile was already in the air. Their threat sensors informed them that they were being illuminated from behind, and within seconds all five helicopters simultaneously increased power and moved forward, dropping to as low an altitude as possible. As they screamed over the roof of the White

House, the copilots hit their flare-dispenser buttons, hoping to confuse an approaching heat-seeking missile. Jack Lortch felt his heart climb into his throat as he saw the flares come shooting out of the tails of the helicopters. The huge choppers moved just above his head, straining to gain speed, their bright red flares streaming down and pelting the roof of the White House. Without hesitation, his hand mike snapped up to his mouth. Trying to scream above the deafening roar of the helicopters, he yelled, “Sniper teams, look for a missile launch!”

128

He watched the choppers gain speed as they tore across Lafayette Park, skimming the tops of the trees, and willed them to go faster. The seconds seemed like minutes as he watched and waited to see a red streak and then an explosion. Several flares landed by his feet, and he ran to the north side of the roof, following the choppers. About a half a mile away from the White House the formation banked hard to the left and Lortch lost sight of it. Atop the hill at Arlington the old man tracked the formation of helicopters as they scrambled for safety.

Quickly, he punched in the codes for the radar units that had been placed to the east and north of the White House. Seconds later the helicopters picked up the azimuth of the new threats and banked hard to the left. Heading due west, they raced over the rooftops of downtown, gaining speed quickly and continuing to drop flares. The old man punched in the codes for the last two radar units. They immediately started sweeping the horizon from the west and southwest with their search radar-the trap was complete. As the pilots reached the Potomac River, they did exactly what their instincts and training had taught them. They skimmed over the top of the Key Bridge and dove almost two hundred feet to the deck. The formation pulled up dangerously close to the blue-gray waters of the

Potomac and raced northward, below the tree line and underneath the coverage of the radars that had been harassing them. The warning lights on their dashboards subsided, and the shrill of the threat sensors ceased. The engine of the van was running and the assassin was standing next to the stone wall waiting for the helicopters. He heard them coming before he could see them. When they appeared, he was immediately impressed by how low they were flying and how tight they’d kept the formation. That wouldn’t last much longer, he thought to himself.

Pressing in the code for the flare launchers and radar unit, he placed his thumb over the enter button and waited. As they passed underneath his position, he looked at the blur of rotors spinning below and said, “Now just keep your cool and don’t run into each other. I don’t want any dead Marines on my hands.” The Chain Bridge, unlike the Key

Bridge, was only about fifty feet high and was slung low across the Potomac. The assassin waited for just a moment longer, and when the lead Super Stallion was about two hundred yards from the bridge, he hit the button.

The radar powered up and the helicopters were so close that the radar immediately narrowed its search to fire control. Again the threat sensors on board the choppers came howling to life. Seconds later all six of the bright red phosphorus flares snaked their way out of the tubes and into the sky leaving a trail of smoke behind them. The combination of the visual threat of the red streaks and the fact that the pilots thought they were locked onto by a surface-to-air missile caused the lead pilot to do what came naturally. He’d been trained for almost fifty hours in close-formation escort duty, but he’d also been trained for well over two hundred hours in missile-evasion tactics.

All this plus the fact that there was nothing more unnatural for a pilot to do than fly a straight and steady course when being tracked by fire-control radar caused him to jerk his stick to the left. Upon seeing and hearing the danger that was ahead, the other three Super

Stallion pilots had already started to loosen the formation, and when the lead escort broke

129

left, the other three scattered, as much out of the fear of a midair collision as their desire to evade what they thought was an approaching missile. The helicopters in the three and six o’clock slots broke to the right and stayed low, because it was better to pass through a hot zone quickly than to gain altitude and lose speed. The helicopter in the nine slot was forced to pull up to avoid hitting the lead escort, who had cut her off. All of this left

Marine One alone, in the middle of the river, a sitting duck. There was no time or room to react. Marine One passed through the smoke trails of the flares while the helicopter’s threat sensors continued to flash and warn of imminent death. Gripping the controls tightly, the pilots of Marine One braced themselves for impact and cursed their escorts for abandoning them.

THE OLD MAN WAS BACK BEHIND THE WHEEL OF HIS RENTAL CAR

AND driving across the Arlington Memorial Bridge. When he reached the east side, he got onto the Potomac Parkway and headed north. Exiting off the Parkway, he entered the

Foggy Bottom neighborhood of Washington, D.C less than a mile from the White House.

Parking in a ramp where there would be cameras and attendants would not be wise, so he circled and waited for a space on the street.

It was just past twelve-thirty and the streets and sidewalks were crowded with people coming and going to lunch. After finding a spot, he got out and left the unneeded cane in the passenger seat. Two short blocks later he found the pre-selected pay phone, inserted a quarter, and punched in a phone number. After several rings, a deep voice answered on the other end. “Hello, you’ve reached Special Agent Skip McMahon. If you’d like to leave a message, please do so at the beep.

If you need to speak to one of my assistants, press zero.” The old man pulled a

Dictaphone out of his pocket, placed the speaker up to the phone, and pressed the play button. “Special Agent McMahon, we know you have been placed in charge of investigating the assassinations of Senator Fitzgerald, Congressman Koslowski, Senator

Downs, and Speaker Basset. We are sending you this message because we do not want to fight our battle in the media. We suggest the President and his people follow suit. We are in possession of several Stinger missiles and could have easily blown Marine One out of the sky this afternoon. You can tell the President that the only reason he is still alive is because we did not want to kill the Marines and Secret Service agents on board.

“If you continue to ignore our demands and manipulate public opinion through the media, we will have no choice but to escalate our war. So far we have assassinated only elected officials, but we are adding the names of Stu Garret and Ted Hopkinson to our list of targets. We are very well informed about what goes on inside the Stevens administration and know that these two men are responsible for most of the lies that have been spoon-fed to the media over the last week. If you continue to label us as terrorists and the President as the noble defender of the Constitution, you will die. This is our last warning. No matter what they tell you, Mr. President, the Secret Service cannot protect

130

you from us. They can make our job more difficult, but they cannot stop us from ending your life. This is your last warning.”

Marine One landed on the helicopter pad at Camp David, and a pale-faced President

Stevens was draped in his bulletproof trench coat and rushed into a waiting Suburban.

The President sat in the backseat in between two Secret Service agents. No one spoke as the tan truck sped up the narrow, tree lined path. The Suburban stopped in front of the cabin, and again Stevens was rushed inside. Two of the agents went inside with him, and the other four took up posts outside.

The President stood in the main room and looked at the most senior agent. “Where is

Mr. Garret?”

“He’s being brought in another truck.” There was more awkward silence as the agents averted their eyes from the President’s. Again Stevens looked to the senior agent and asked, “How did they know which helicopter I was on?”

“We don’t know, sir.” Stevens said nothing; he gave no look or expression of emotion. He continued to stand in the midst of his protectors for another minute, then without saying a word he walked in between them and down the hallway. The agents followed. Stevens entered his bedroom and turned to close the door behind him. The two

Secret Service agents came to an abrupt halt. The President held up his hand.

“I want to be alone.” The agents nodded respectfully and Stevens closed the door.

Walking across the room, he took off his jacket and threw it on the bed. With several yanks back and forth, his tie came loose and dropped to the floor. He stood leaning over the dresser staring into the large mirror on the wall. The reality of what had almost happened was starting to sink in. He felt a cold chill shoot up his spine, and his entire body shuddered. Standing up straight, he quickly walked over to the wet bar, grabbed a thick glass tumbler, loaded it with ice, and filled it to the brim with vodka. After taking a large gulp of the cold, clear liquid, he walked over to the fireplace and noticed that it was stocked with wood and kindling. Stevens set his drink down on the mantel and picked up a box of long matches sitting in a basket next to the hearth. Grabbing one of the twelve-inch matchsticks, he struck it across the coarse strip on the side of the box. The matchstick broke in half, and Stevens tried again, this time holding the match closer to the tip.

The red tip sparked and then burst into flames. Stevens waited until the wood stem caught fire, then stuck the long match under the logs, lighting the dry pieces of kindling.

The fire caught quickly and he pulled up a chair to watch the flames spread. Sliding off his loafers, he placed his feet on the hearth and took a deep breath. The warmth of the fire helped him relax and momentarily forget about the afternoon’s life-threatening events. He stared into the fire and watched it burst into a full blaze as the white bark on the birch logs crackled and curled front the flames. The images of the helicopter ride began to surface again, and he took another gulp from his drink. But still he saw the flares

131

shooting out of the helicopter next to them, the violent jerking of the craft as it banked and then dropped like a rock, pulling up just short of the river’s water, Stu Garret screaming and demanding to know what was going on, the escorts scattering and the red streaks shooting up in front of them. Stevens became unsteady again, and he started to shake. He grabbed his drink with both hands to keep it from spilling, his body trembling as he pulled the glass to his lips with both hands wrapped tightly around it. He took four large gulps, finishing the rest of the vodka, and stood to pour another. As he walked to the bar, the murders of Basset and the others flashed sharply across his mind, and he realized for the first time just how vulnerable he was.

The crystal tumbler with the Presidential seal engraved on the side slipped from his hand and shattered on the stone floor. Stevens continued to the bar and started to pour another drink, the glass neck of the vodka bottle clanging off the rim of the tumbler as his hands continued to shake uncontrollably. Garret arrived at the main cabin just minutes after the President and went straight to the conference room. He grabbed the nearest phone and punched in the number for Ted Hopkinson’s office. After several rings

Hopkinson’s secretary answered and Garret barked, “Get me Ted!” As each second passed, Garret became more and more irritated. With sweat forming on his forehead, he gripped the phone tighter and tighter. According to Garret’s watch, which he looked at about every five seconds, he had been on hold for two minutes and thirteen seconds when

Hopkinson finally came on the line. “Where in the hell have you been?” Garret spat into the phone.

“Stu, it’s a zoo around here! The press is crawling all over the place. They want to know what the hell is going on. A couple of them just asked me if the President is dead!”

Shit. “Stu, we’ve got to get control of this thing!” I know, .just shut up for a minute while

I think of the best way to handle it.”

There was a moment of silence while Garret scrambled to come up with a plan of action. “We’re going to have to put him on TV. Grab a cameraman and a reporter from the press pool and get your ass up here.”

“I can’t.

The Secret Service has shut the compound down. They’re not letting anyone come or go.” Garret screamed into the phone, “Screw the damn Secret Service. Thanks to those idiots I almost got my ass blown out of the sky twenty minutes ago. You find Lortch and tell him I said if he wants to keep his job to get a chopper for you pronto. If he gives you any shit, find Mike Nance and have him get one from the Pentagon.

Get moving!”

“What are we going to have him say to the press?”

“Goddamn it, Ted, do I have to do everything around here! You’re the damn communications director! You’re paid to figure out what he says to the press! Get

132

moving!” Garret slammed the phone down and headed for the door. On his way through the main living room he ran into Special Agent Terry Andrews. Andrews was the Secret

Service agent who had been carrying the President’s bulletproof trench coat when they boarded Marine One. Garret approached him and said, “Andrews, I don’t want any crap, just straight talk. What in the hell happened while we were airborne, and how did they know which bird we were on?” The tall ex-Marine looked down at Garret and replied, “We don’t know how they knew which helicopter we were on, sir.”

“What about missiles? Were there any missiles launched?”

“We’re not sure at this point, sir.”

“What do you mean, you’re not sure? You get ahold of your boss and tell him I want some answers, and I want them quick!” Without waiting for a response, Garret turned and left.

The SCENE AT THE CHAIN BRIDGE WAS INTENSE, TO SAY THE LEAST.

THE media, the Metro Police, the Virginia State Police, and the FBI had all descended on the scene within minutes of each other. McMahon arrived shortly thereafter with an FBI

special-response team and ordered that the media be moved back with whatever force necessary, short of shooting them. The Virginia State Police closed off the west end of the bridge, and the D.C. Metropolitan Police were manning the east end. Traffic was being diverted, and the FBI had taken over the crime scene.

Two Park Police helicopters were busy warding off the media helicopters that came swooping in like vultures, trying to get live footage of whatever was so interesting to the

FBI. Skip McMahon stood looking over the south edge of the Chain Bridge, watching

Kathy Jennings and two other agents carefully inspect the devices they’d found.

McMahon had decided to send only Jennings and two other agents down until the special evidence team arrived with their equipment. The fewer agents the better for now. Until they knew exactly what they were dealing with, there was the chance of contaminating evidence. Jennings was pointing at the ground and one of the agents was taking photos, while the other one stuck small yellow flags into the ground. McMahon heard the sound of an approaching helicopter and looked up to see one of the shiny green-and-white

Presidential VH-3s approaching. The large helicopter swung in over the bridge and descended, its churning rotors blowing sand into the air. McMahon turned away, shielding his face from the flying debris. When the bird touched down, the pilots cut the engines and the swooping sound of the blades lessened. The swirl of sand started to subside and McMahon turned to see Jack Lortch approaching.

McMahon extended his hand and greeted the younger man. “I’ll bet you’ve had better days, Jack.” Lortch shook his head and frowned.

“This ranks with the worst of them.” McMahon grabbed Lortch by the shoulder.

“Come on, let me show you what we’ve found.”

133

McMahon led Lortch over to the side of the bridge and pointed down at Jennings and the other two agents. “My agents found a small, gray metal box with a dish attached to the top and a piece of wood with some vertical tubes. Both have batteries and transponders attached, so it would appear that they were activated by remote control.

Which of course means the people we’re after are long gone.”

“Can I take a look at the stuff?.” asked Lortch. “Not yet. I have a special evidence team and a mobile crime lab on the way. I want to keep the area as sterile as possible until they get here.” Lortch nodded and McMahon changed gears.

“Jack, how did they know which helicopter he was on?”

“I have absolutely no idea. We didn’t even know until just minutes before he took off.”

“How did they know which route he would take to Camp David? Don’t you guys send all the choppers along different flight paths?”

“Yeah, they all fly in different directions, but this was not the route they were supposed to take.” McMahon had a confused look on his face.

“Well, how did they end up down here?”

“Right now we think they were forced to fly into the river valley.”

“How?”

“Do you have a map of D.C.?” McMahon said yes and the two walked over to the car.

Skip retrieved a map from the glove box and spread it out on the trunk, using his gun, handcuffs, and digital phone to weigh down three of the four corners. Lortch pointed to the White House and said, “The squadron commander tells me that when the group left the White House, they were lit up by fire-control radar from the south. About ten minutes ago my people found a small, gray box with a radar dish.

It was concealed inside a Washington Post newspaper box on the corner of

Fourteenth and Constitution.” Lortch tapped his finger on the spot .just a block to the south of the White House. “The group took evasive maneuvers and fled to the north.

About ten seconds after they were lit up by radar to the south, they were lit up again by radar to the north and east. The helicopters headed west away from the threat, and as they approached the Potomac, they were lit up again from the west.

The squadron commander tells me his boys are trained to head for the weeds when something like this happens, and that a river valley offers the perfect protection because they can dive below the radar and an approaching missile. So when these guys reached the Potomac, they went for cover and headed in the only direction that they hadn’t been

134

threatened from. to the northwest.” Lortch took his hands and set them on the map forming a V, the base located at the White House and the open end at the Chain Bridge.

“They created a trap and drove the helicopters into it.”

“So what happened when they got here? Did they fire a missile?”

“Supposedly the pilots thought they were in the clear. They have threat sensors that tell them when a missile is locked onto them, and I guess they make this screeching noise. Well, when they dove into the river valley, these things stopped screeching and they thought they’d avoided the threat, and then all of the sudden these red streaks; pop up in front of them and the threat sensors start screaming again.

The lead escort thought they were missiles and he broke formation.”

Lortch shook his head in frustration. “Which he’s not supposed to do.

The whole idea behind this strategy is that the escorts are supposed to protect the

President’s bird, and if need be, take the hit.” McMahon put his hands up in the air, palms out. “Hold on a minute. I’ve got a bunch of people telling me they saw a missile, and I’ve got some other people telling me that they were flares. I’m inclined to believe the second group because no one reports hearing an explosion, and my agents found several warm but burned-out flares. Now, what do your pilots tell you?

Were there missiles launched or not?”

“The other pilots don’t think so.

They say they were flares.” Perplexed, McMahon shook his head. Lortch said, “I

don’t get it either. The pilots that were flying Marine One said they were dead meat ….

They said that when the lead escort broke formation, they thought they were going to be blown out of the sky.

We’re either very lucky or these terrorists screwed up somewhere.”

McMahon stared at the horizon and rubbed his forefinger across his lips as he sifted through the new information. A short while later he announced, “We’re missing something …. Something doesn’t fit here.

Why go to all of that effort and not take a shot?” Both of them pondered McMahon’s question, and then McMahon shook the dazed look out of his eyes and said, “We’ll have time for this later. How’s the President?”

“My people tell me he’s pretty shook up. I guess the ride was rough.”

135

Lortch stopped and his jaw tensed. “They also tell me that damn Stu Garret is on one of his rampages, yelling at everyone and demanding answers. This whole stupid thing was his idea from the start.”

“What do you mean?”

“I told them I didn’t think having the meeting at Camp David and moving the

President was worth the risk.” Lortch brought his hand up to his eyes and said, “I’ve had it up to here with Garret.”

“Jack, let me give you a little piece of advice. There’s only one way to deal with a jerk like Garret. You meet him head-on, and you don’t take any crap.

Half the reason why he’s the way he is, is because people let him get away with it.”

“Believe me, I’ve thought about punching his ticket more than once, but I like my job too much.” McMahon was about to add another editorial comment on the behavior of

Garret when he heard Kathy Jennings yell from below. McMahon and Lortch looked over the edge of the bridge.

Jennings craned her neck upward and held a digital phone in her outstretched hand.

“Hey, Skip, I just got off the phone with some Air Force people over at the Pentagon. I

read them the serial numbers off this thing and they say it’s one of ours. It’s an older—

model radar unit that they used to put in the nose cones of fighters like the F-4 Phantom.”

Lortch and McMahon traded glances, and McMahon yelled back down, “Did you ask them how someone would go about getting their hands on one of them?”

“Yeah, they said there’s thousands of them available on the surplus-military-hardware market.”

“I assume they keep records of what they do with all this stuff.”

“Yep, they told me they’ll start tracing it for us.”

“Great,” responded McMahon, and then he continued in a sarcastic voice, “By the way, you didn’t happen to find any unused missiles down there, did you?”

“Not yet.”

“All right, good work.”

McMahon turned back to Lortch. “Well, at least it’s a start.”

“Yeah, listen, I’ve got to get out to Camp David and brief the President on what happened. Give me a call if you find anything out, otherwise let’s plan on talking later.”