Term Limits

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“Will do.” During Lortch’s short flight to Camp David, he’d prepared himself for what he knew was an assured confrontation with Garret. He thought about the way the chief of staff had treated Dorrell after the Basset assassination and knew he was in for the same treatment. What McMahon said was right, he’d put up with Garret’s reckless and unprofessional abuse for almost three years, and now was the time to put an end to it. He knew exactly how to handle it.

It would be kept between him and Garret, no one else needed to know.

Special Agent Terry Andrews was waiting for Lortch on the porch of the main cabin when the Suburban pulled up. Lortch walked up the steps, and Andrews led him over to a more secluded area of the porch. Andrews spoke in a low voice. “What have you found out?” Lortch relayed the discussion he’d had with McMahon and then asked, “How’s the

President?”

“He’s trying to get some rest.”

“Where is Garret?”

“He’s in the conference room with Hopkinson trying to figure out how they’re going to spin this story to the media. I was in there just when you landed, and they were debating whether or not they should hold a big ceremony and pin some medals on those

Marine pilots. I tell ya, Jack, it takes all the strength I have to not crack that damn idiot across the head. He’s been screaming his head off for the last hour demanding to know what’s going on. He told me the Secret Service is going to pay for this fuckup.”

“We’ll see.” The two men walked into the cabin and down the hall to the conference room. Lortch opened the door and entered first. Garret was standing over Hopkinson’s shoulder telling him what to write. He looked up at Lortch and pronounced, “It’s about time you got here.

You’d better have some answers for me.” Lortch ignored Garret and looked at

Hopkinson.

“Ted, would you please excuse us?” Hopkinson did nothing for a moment and then started to stand. Garret put a hand on his shoulder and pushed him back into his seat.

“Anything you have to say to me, Ted can hear.”

Lortch glared unwaveringly into Garret’s eyes and said, “Not this, this is for your ears only.” The lean Lortch took off his jacket, laid it over the back of a chair, and pointed at the door with his thumb.

“Ted, please excuse us, this will only take a minute. Terry, you, too.”

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Hopkinson got out of his chair, and he and Andrews headed for the door.

As they were doing so, Garret snapped, “This had better be good.”

Lortch continued to stare at Garret and said, “Terry, please close the door.”

Andrews closed the heavy wood door behind him, leaving Lortch and Garret alone.

Garret stayed on his side of the table and started in. “You’d better have some answers for me. First you guys screw up and get Basset killed, and then you almost get my ass and the President’s blown out of the sky.” Garret continued to bark while Lortch walked around the table.

Lortch was just a little shorter than Garret and weighed slightly less.

Because of his slight size advantage and position of authority, Garret incorrectly thought there was no reason to physically fear Lortch instead of backing away, Garret took a step forward and pointed his finger at Lortch. “Heads are going to roll over this one, Lortch, and yours is at the top of the-” Before Garret could finish his sentence, Lortch grabbed his Adam’s apple and slammed him backward into the wall.

Garret stood pinned against the wall, his eyes wide open, and both hands wrapped around Lortch’s wrist. Lortch brought his face to within inches of Garret’s and in a tense, quiet voice said, “Stu, I think it’s about time you and I had a man-to-man talk. I’m finished taking your shit, and my people are done taking your shit! We’re sick and tired of your emotional outbursts! Today’s little ride up to Camp David was your idea! I told you it was an unnecessary risk, but you went ahead and for your own stupid reasons convinced the President that he should have the meeting up here. It was your idea, Stu, so

I don’t want to hear you say another word about it, or I’m going to start airing some of your dirty laundry in the press. “No heads are going to roll. You are not going to ruin my career or any of my people’s. In fact, you’re gonna start treating them with respect, because if you don’t, I’m gonna leak the story of how you and Mike Nance blackmailed

Congressman Moore.” Garret’s eyes opened wide, and Lortch smiled. “That’s right, Stu, I

know all about the little arrangement you and Nance had with Arthur Higgins.” Lortch paused to let Garret sweat a little more.

“I’ll make a deal with you, Stu. From now on you start listening to me when it comes to security issues. What I say goes, and I don’t want to see any more juvenile tirades. You start treating me and my people with the respect they deserve, and we’ll get along fine.

But I’m warning you, Stu, don’t piss me off again, or I’ll turn everything I have over to the

FBI. And believe me, there are plenty of people at the Bureau who would love to take a bite out of your ass!”

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MICHAEL WAS PARKED IN FRONT OF A BRICK APARTMENT BUILDING

IN THE Adams Morgan neighborhood of D.C. He sat behind the wheel and sipped a cup of piping hot Colombian coffee he had just picked up at the Starbucks two blocks away.

He looked down at his digital phone and then up at the Ford Explorer that was parked three cars ahead of him. It belonged to the man he wanted to talk to. O’Rourke had already called up to the apartment twice and had got the answering machine both times.

O’Rourke was growing impatient. He desperately wanted to talk to the man who lived in the building. He tapped his hand on the steering wheel and guessed that his friend was out for a jog. O’Rourke knew he was in town because he had called his office and checked. Five minutes and half a cup of coffee later, he saw a man with a dark blue baseball cap and a large backpack thrown over his shoulder round the corner.

Michael set his coffee in the center console and got out of his truck.

Straightening his tie, he walked up onto the curb and locked eyes with the man.

“You’re awfully hard to get ahold of.” The lean individual gave Michael a surprised look.

“I’m sorry. I’ve been on the run.”

“Don’t you get your messages?

I’ve called a dozen times in the last three days.” Michael stuck out his hand, and his friend grabbed it. “Sorry, I’ve been awfully busy.”

The man, who was six years Michael’s elder, adjusted the backpack on his shoulder and glanced up and down the street with his alert eyes.

Michael looked around. “Am I keeping you from something?”

“I have a lot to do today, but I can always spare a few minutes for my little brother’s best friend.” O’Rourke was warmed by the comment.

The man standing before him was Scott Coleman, the older brother of Mark

Coleman, O’Rourke’s best friend who was killed a year earlier.

Scott Coleman was the former commander of SEAL Team Six, America’s premier counterterrorism unit. He also happened to be the person Michael had been worrying about since last Friday. Coleman had left the SEALS almost a year ago after a highly decorated sixteen-year stint. Despite his illustrious career, he did not leave on a happy note. He had lost half of his SEAL team in a mission over northern Libya the previous year.

Upon returning from the mission Coleman was informed that their assault on a terrorist training camp had been compromised because a high-profile politician had leaked the mission. When his superiors refused to reveal the identity of the politician, Coleman resigned in disgust. O’Rourke had found out through Senator Olson, who was the chairman of the Joint Intelligence Committee, that Senator Fitzgerald was the person

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in question. Michael had labored as to whether he should tell Coleman. They had grown closer since the death of Mark Coleman, and while on a hunting trip the previous fall

Michael finally decided to confide in the warrior. Seamus was right: if they were his men, he would want and deserve to know. Coleman had taken the news about Fitzgerald in silence, and that was the only time he and Michael had discussed the issue. But when

Senator Fitzgerald turned up dead a week ago, Michael could only wonder. O’Rourke put his hands in his pockets and shifted uneasily.

“That was quite a deal with the President’s helicopter this afternoon.

You wouldn’t by chance know anything about who might do such a thing, would you?”

“Nope.” Coleman stared unflinchingly at Michael with his bright blue eyes. “Do you remember that hunting trip we went on last year?”

“Of course.”

“Do you remember that bit of information I passed on to you?”

“Yep.” Michael returned Coleman’s stare and nodded. After several moments of silence Michael decided to change his approach. “So what do you think about the assassinations?” Coleman’s face stayed expressionless. “I’m not doing a lot of mourning, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“No.” O’Rourke shook his head. “I didn’t think you would be. Any idea who might be behind them?”

Coleman cocked his head to the side. “No, do you?”

“I might.” Michael rocked back and forth on his heels. “Are you alone?”

“Yes.”

“You haven’t by chance talked to anyone at the FBI lately?” O’Rourke shook his head.

“Good. Are you planning on talking to anyone at the FBI?”

“No. I think you and I can handle this one-on-one.” Coleman raised one of his eyebrows and shot Michael a questioning look.

“Hypothetically,” asked O’Rourke, “if you knew who the assassins were, do you think you could give them a message from me?”

“Hypothetically?” Coleman folded his arms across his chest. “I suppose almost anything is possible.”

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“Tell them” - Michael leaned in close-“that there has been enough killing. Tell them to give us some time to implement their reforms before this thing gets any uglier.”

“That sounds like a good idea, but I’m not so sure the President and his people have gotten the hint. And now our friend Senator Olson is trying to screw things up.” Coleman shook his head. “I don’t think these guys are done killing. At least not until the President and the others come around.”

“So you think there will be more assassinations?”

“I wouldn’t know.” Michael rolled his eyes.

“Hypothetically.”

“Hypothetically speaking. who knows?” Both men stared each other down for a while, both refusing to blink. Finally Coleman looked at his watch and said, “I’m running late. I should really get going.

Let’s get together for lunch next week.” Michael reached out and grabbed Coleman’s arm. “Scott, I understand why you’re doing what you’re doing. If Fitzgerald had compromised the security of me and my men during the Gulf and gotten even one of my men killed, I would have come home and gutted him like a pig. I’m not going to pass judgment on you, but I think it’s time to let the politicians finish what’s been started.”

“Like they did in Iraq.” Coleman shook his head. “I think these boys are going all the way to Baghdad. No half-assed jobs this time. You politicians, present company excluded, have a history of screwing things up when the clear objective is within reach.”

Michael couldn’t argue with the historical comparison. “Let it rest” was the only answer he could muster. Coleman nodded and turned toward his apartment. As he reached the first step, he turned to Michael and said, “There is one thing you can do. Do you still keep in touch with Senator Olson?”

“Yes.”

“It might be a good idea to tell him now is not a good time to get into bed with the

President.” Michael felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. “Keep Erik out of this, Scott.”

“I’m sure Erik will be fine. I’m just saying hypothetically it would be a good idea to warn him.” Coleman gave Michael a half salute and entered the building.

McMahon walked down the executive hallway at a quicker than normal pace.

The day had been one of nonstop commotion. The media was everywhere, sticking a microphone or a camera in McMahon’s face at every turn. The events surrounding the

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President’s unusual flight to Camp David were coming together like a jigsaw puzzle, and a crucial piece of the puzzle had just been discovered. McMahon hadn’t had the chance to check his voice mail until just minutes before. The message left by the assassins had sat untouched for over five hours. McMahon nodded to Director Roach’s secretary and continued through the door, closing it behind him.

Roach was on the phone and looked up at McMahon. McMahon towered over the edge of Roach’s desk, waving his finger in a circular motion, signaling his boss to wrap up the conversation, that there was something more important to talk about. Roach nodded and told the person on the other end that he needed to go. Hanging up the phone, Roach asked, “What’s up?”

“We got a message from our friends and it’s been sitting under my nose all day.”

“What do you mean ‘friends’?” Roach asked with a quizzical look on his face. “The assassins.” McMahon walked around the edge of Roach’s desk and punched his voice mail number into the phone.

When it was ready to go, he pushed the speaker button. “Listen to this.”

The computerized voice played from the small speaker. Roach sat transfixed, listening intently as light was shed on the afternoon’s events. When the message was over, Roach asked McMahon to play it again.

After it was played for the second time, McMahon saved it and looked to his boss for a reaction.

“Who in the hell are these guys?” Roach asked with a deeply puzzled look.

“They’re not terrorists, Brian. Let’s come to an agreement on that right now, and they’re not some fringe white-supremacist group. If they were, they would have blown the President out of the sky.

Terrorists don’t give a shit about killing Secret Service agents or Marines. These guys are exactly who Kennedy said they were from day one.

They’re former commandos.”

“I think you’re right, and besides, terrorists wouldn’t send this to us, they’d send it to the media. The more exposure, the better Can we be sure this is from the group responsible for the previous attacks?”

“I’m ninety-nine percent sure. The message was left about fifteen minutes after

Marine One took off from the White House, and the computerized voice sounds the same as the one that was left with ABC after Basset’s assassination. I’m having our lab analyze the sound signature right now.”

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“How long will it take them to verify?”

“They told me within the hour. When are you going to tell the President?”

“I’m flying out to Camp David in about thirty minutes to brief him.

I’ll wait and do it in person.” Roach stared off at nothing for a moment while he thought about the tape. “You don’t have to come if you don’t want to. I’m sure you’ve got plenty to keep you busy around here.

Besides, I know how much you hate these briefings.”

“Are you crazy? I wouldn’t miss seeing the expression on Garret’s face when he hears that these guys are onto him.”

Roach nodded his head in agreement and looked at his watch. “Be back up here in thirty minutes. I’ve got a chopper picking us up on the roof.”

“One more thing, the boys over at the Secret Service have been getting beat up all day. If it’s all right with you, I’d like to let Jack Lortch take the lead on telling the

President about the radar units and the flare launcher. I’ll back him up on what we’re doing to investigate the new evidence, and I’ll let you handle the message from the assassins if you want.”

“No, that’s all right, you can handle it, and go ahead and let Lortch take the lead.”

McMahon left Roach’s office and headed back to his.

The chopper ride from the Hoover Building to Camp David took about twenty-five minutes. Roach, McMahon, and two of the director’s bodyguards sat in back. Roach utilized the time by having McMahon bring him up to speed on every aspect of the investigation. After landing, they were driven to the main cabin and escorted to the conference room.

It was just after 7 P.M. when the President and Garret entered the room, taking their spots at the head of the table. Mike Nance was seated at the far end of the table so he could observe everyone, while Stansfield, Roach, and McMahon were seated on the one side, with Lortch and Director Tracy on the other. Garret looked at Roach and in a tired voice asked, “Director Roach, do you have any new developments to report since we talked earlier?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, we have received a message from the assassins. I’ll let

Special Agent McMahon fill you in.” Roach turned to McMahon and nodded. Each spot at the large conference table had a phone in front of it. McMahon pulled the one in front of him closer and punched in his voice mail number. “Just before we left this evening, we discovered a message left by the assassins. If you’ll bear with me for a moment, I’ll

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retrieve it.” McMahon finished accessing the message, hit the speaker button, and slid his chair back. The message started to play: “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.” Both the President and Garret looked up at McMahon upon hearing his name.

The message continued while everyone listened intently. When the tape ended with, “Mr.

President, the Secret Service cannot protect you from us.

They can make our job more difficult, but they cannot stop us from ending your life.

This is your last warning,” the pale President looked to Jack Lortch and Director Tracy for reassurance but only got straight faces and silence in return. Garret leaned back in his chair and placed both hands under his armpits to keep them from shaking. The silence was only making him more uncomfortable, so he looked at McMahon and snapped, “How do we even know if this thing is real?” McMahon responded in an even tone, “Some of our lab technicians analyzed it just before I left.

They say it has the same voice signature of the recording we received after Speaker

Basset was shot.” Garret started to grind his teeth. He didn’t like surprises, and he had no doubt that McMahon and Roach had intentionally withheld the tape from him until just now.

Through clenched teeth he asked, “How long have you known about this tape?”

“I checked my voice mail for the first time since this morning at about six this evening.”

“When did the assassins leave it?”

“At about twelve-thirty this afternoon.” Garret sprang to the edge of the table.

“You’ve had this since twelve-thirty and you haven’t told us about it?”

“The assassins left it on my voice mail at twelve-thirty, but I did not discover it until six. Considering the fact that we were coming out here to brief you at seven, Director

Roach and I decided that we would play the recording for you when we got here.”

“Hold on, back up a minute.

Don’t you usually check your voice mail more than once a day?”

“On a normal day, yes, but I was a little busy today.” Garret pointed his finger at

McMahon and raising his voice said, “The next time you get something this important, you let us know immediately! There is absolutely no excuse other than incompetency for not informing us of this recording as soon as you found it!” McMahon was enjoying

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himself too much to let what Garret was saying upset him. Leaning back in his chair, McMahon folded his arms and smiled. Jack Lortch who was sitting next to Garret, leaned forward and caught the chief of staffs eye.

Lortch gave Garret a hard stare. The message was clear. Garret looked down at his notepad and mumbled something to himself. No one spoke for a while, and then a nervous President Stevens attempted to speak. The words didn’t come out right the first time, so he started over. “Could they have shot down Marine One today?” Without pausing for a second, Lortch answered, “Yes.” In the most polite tone he could muster, Garret cleared his throat and said, “Jack, let’s not be so presumptuous. We shouldn’t jump to any conclusions until we get more information.”

Garret didn’t like anyone getting the President frazzled unless it was him. Lortch shrugged his shoulders and said, “I am basing my opinion on nothing more than the facts.

These assassins have shown an incredible propensity to plan ahead. They not only discovered which helicopter the President was on, but they forced Marine One and her escorts to fly a course they were not supposed to. I spoke with the pilots, and they said there is no doubt in their minds that Marine One could have been blown out of the sky this afternoon.” The President closed his eyes and shook his head.

Several seconds later he looked at Lortch and asked, “Can you protect me or not?”

“If you continue to ignore my advice, no.”

“What do you mean ignore your advice?” asked the President in a pleading tone. He looked to Lortch’s boss this time for an answer, but didn’t get one. Lortch had convinced his boss to stay out of it and let him put the fear of God into the President. Lortch leaned forward and got the President’s attention. “Sir, when you and Mr. Garret informed me that you wanted to hold your budget summit at Camp David, I told you it was a bad idea and that it should be held at the White House.

Because you ignored that advice, you were almost killed today.” Lortch paused briefly, his voice taking on a more authoritative tone.

“Special Agent Dorrell told Speaker Basset that he should cancel all public appearances. The Speaker ignored his advice and now he’s dead …. I have been telling you for two and a half years that security around the White House is lax, that the press is given too much freedom to come and go as they please. Well, it all came home to roost today.

I found out how the assassins knew which helicopter you were on.”

Lortch again paused and looked at the President, letting the tension mount. He was going to play this hand for everything it was worth.

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“My agents tore apart everything that was within sight of the South Lawn. One of them found a transponder attached to the live-signal feed underneath the control panel of the ABC News van. While arranging security for this trip, I suggested that the media be banned from the South Lawn while the helicopters were coming and going. I thought this precaution was appropriate considering the fact that four politicians have been assassinated in the last week. This request was ignored because it was deemed too important of a news event to have a media blackout, so the media was allowed to tape the entire event.

Several members of your staff even wanted to let the media carry the event live. I told them that was out of the question, and we reached a compromise that allowed the media to tape your departure and then show it later. “Just before the first helicopter landed, my agents shut down the live feeds on all the news vans and made them go to tape. At some point after that, the assassins activated a transponder that they’d planted underneath the

ABC News van’s control board. Once this was turned on, they were able to watch everything that happened on the South Lawn in real time. These assassins know where our weaknesses are, and they know that our ability to protect you is directly related to your desire to be protected. They obviously understand the relationship between a politician and the media, and if you continue to make yourself accessible to the media and the public, we will not be able to protect you.” The President looked at his chief protector and said, “Jack, do whatever you need to make things more secure, and I’ll listen to you.”

Roach, noticing that the President was in an unusually decisive and agreeable mood, decided to make his move. “Mr. President, our investigation has hit a wall. We believe these assassins are former United States commandos. Special Agent McMahon and his people have received very little cooperation from the Special Forces people at the

Pentagon. They are stonewalling us at every turn.” The President’s head jerked from

Roach to Nance. “Mike, what’s the problem?”

“Well, sir, there are certain national security issues involved here.

Most of these personnel files are either top secret or contain top secret information about covert missions.” The President cut Nance off for the first time in their professional relationship. “I don’t want to hear about problems. I want to see some results.” Stevens turned his head away from Nance and back to Roach. “I will have an executive order ready by tomorrow morning giving Special Agent McMahon permission to review any personnel file he wishes. We are done dragging our feet on this. I want these people caught!” Nance looked at the President from the other end of the table and bit his lip.

Stevens was too emotional right now, he would have to wait until later to discuss this issue.

There was no way in the world someone without top secret clearance was going to get carte blanche on those files. Especially someone from the FBI. While Nance tried to think of a way around this new problem, Lortch briefed the participants on the evidence they’d found under the bridge such as the radar dishes, and what efforts were being made to

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track the serial numbers. As the briefing continued, it dawned on Nance that Garret was unusually quiet. Nance attributed it to the threat the assassins had made on his life.

Nance’s mind moved from Garret to Stansfield. Why was Director Stansfield so quiet during the discussion of Special Forces personnel files? Surely it was in the CIA’s best interest to keep those files away from the eyes of the FBI.

The meeting ended just after 8 P.M and everyone left the conference room except

Garret and Nance.

When the door closed, Garret dropped his head into his hands and rubbed his eyes.

“What a fucking mess.” Nance shifted in his chair and crossed his legs. He watched

Garret and tried to guess what he was thinking.

Nance tilted his head back and asked, “Stu, you were awfully quiet during the briefing. Did that tape get to you?” Garret let his hands fall to the table and looked up with bloodshot eyes. “No … maybe a little … I don’t know.” Garret reached into his shirt pocket.

“God, I need a cigarette.” He shoved one in his mouth and lit it.

After taking a deep drag he said, “They can’t kill me if’ I don’t give them the chance. I

won’t leave the White House for a month. I’ll take one of the guest bedrooms and move in.” Garret took several more deep drags and frowned. “I’m not scared of these terrorists.

I’m worried about something else. We’ve got another problem, and it’s not good.

Lortch knows about the job we did on Frank Moore. He told me he knows who was involved, and if I don’t back off and listen to him, he’ll tell the FBI.” Garret stood up and started pacing. “When it rains, it pours. It’s not like we don’t already have enough problems, and now we’ve got this to deal with.” Nance watched Garret intently and kept his outward composure. “Did he mention my name?” without looking at Nance, Garret paused and said, “Yes.”

“Did he mention any other names?”

“Yes.”

“Whose?” Garret looked at Nance briefly and then looked at a painting on the wall.

“He mentioned Arthur’s.” Nance felt a sharp pain shoot through his temples. “He mentioned Arthur?” Garret reluctantly nodded his head.

“I have no idea how he found out. I didn’t talk to anyone about it.”

Nance’s demeanor remained placid, but inside he was boiling. Without having to think very hard he knew exactly how Lortch had found out. He or one of his people must have overheard Stu talking to God-knows-who about their little blackmail operation.

“Arthur will not be happy about this.

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I’m sure he will want to talk to you at length. Clear your schedule for tomorrow evening. He wants to talk to us about something else, and it can’t wait. I’ll arrange for some discreet transportation.”

THE MOON WAS SHOWING ONLY A SLIVER OF light AS IT sat SUSPENDED

above the tall pines.

The four-door Crown Victoria approached the main gate of Camp David, and the two occupants in the backseat ducked down. The electric gate slid open, and the sedan accelerated past a mob of reporters kept at bay by a squad of Marines with M16s cradled across their chests. The pack of reporters and cameramen pushed each other to try and get a glimpse of who was in the car. The sedan continued down the road and around the first turn, where it slowed. Two identical Crown Victorias pulled off the shoulder and took up positions in front of and behind the car carrying the national security adviser and the

President’s chief of staff. Saturday’s budget summit at Camp David had been a mixed success.

Garret had come up with some accounting gimmicks that would make the budget deficit look smaller than it really was. This would enable the political leadership to say they had cut some spending, without actually making the tough choices. Their hope was that it would pacify the assassins and give the FBI some time to catch the killers. Mike

Nance’s doubts regarding the stability of the new coalition were already proving true.

Senator Olson had balked on the deal, telling the President he would have no part in misleading the American people.

Olson argued that real cuts had to be made, or he was out. The silver-haired Senator from Minnesota told the President he would stay quiet for one week, and if Garret was still playing his accounting games, he would expose the new budget cuts for what they were-a sham.

Nance and Garret spent most of the fifty-minute drive talking in hushed whispers.

The Maryland country roads they traveled on were dark, and traffic was light. When they reached Arthur’s estate, the lead and trailing sedans pulled off to the side, and the one carrying Nance and Garret approached the large wrought-iron gate. Two powerful floodlights illuminated the entrance to the estate. A large man dressed in a tactical jumpsuit and carrying an Uzi stepped out of the guardhouse and approached the sedan. A

flashlight was taped to the underside of the machine gun’s barrel, and the guard turned it on. He pointed it toward the back window and shone the light on Nance and Garret. After identifying both men, he told the driver to pop the trunk.

Walking to the rear of the car, he checked the trunk and then walked back to the guardhouse. Arthur was sitting behind the desk in his study watching the scene at the front gate. Embedded in the wall to the left of his desk were four security monitors and

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two large color TVS. Arthur watched the guard go back into the small booth, and a moment later the gate opened. The gate closed as soon as the car passed through.

Looking at another monitor, Arthur watched the car snake its way up the drive and stop in front of the house, where it was met by two more guards, one of whom had a German shepherd at his side.

Garret and Nance stepped out of the car and stood still while the dog sniffed them and a handheld metal detector was waved over their bodies.

Finally, the door was opened from the inside, and a third guard led them down the hall to Arthur’s study. Arthur pressed a button on the underside of his desk, and an old framed map of the world slid down and covered the monitors. Rising from behind the desk, he walked over to the fireplace and placed one hand on the mantel. Even though

Arthur was over seventy, he still had a rigid and upright frame. His silver hair was neatly combed straight back and stopped an inch above the white collar of his dress shirt. His fingernails were well manicured, and his expensive, worsted-wool suit hung perfectly from his slender frame. The door opened and Nance and Garret entered. Arthur kept his arm on the mantel and waited for his guests to approach.

Mike Nance stopped about ten feet away and in a formal tone said, “Stu Garret, I

would like to introduce you to Arthur.” Garret stepped forward and extended his damp, clammy hand. “It’s great to finally meet you. I’ve been looking forward to this for a while.” Arthur nodded his head slightly. “The pleasure is all mine.” Then, motioning toward several chairs, he said, “Please, let’s sit. Would either of you like anything?”

Nance eased his way over to Arthur’s side. “Before we get started, I would like to go over a couple of things with you in private.” Arthur grasped the point and turned to his other guest.

“Mr. Garret, do you like to smoke cigars?” Garret was caught off guard for a moment.

“Ah… ah… yes, I Walking over to the coffee table, Arthur picked up a cherry wood humidor and lifted the lid.

Garret grabbed one of the cigars and smelled it. Arthur handed him a cigar guillotine, and Garret snipped off the end. “I’ll show you to the door.” Arthur led Garret across the room toward a pair of French doors.

“The view of the Chesapeake is beautiful from the veranda. I think you will enjoy it.”

Arthur opened one of the doors. “We’ll be out to join you in a minute.” Closing the door behind his guest, Arthur turned and walked back to Nance. “What is the problem?”

“It seems that our involvement in the blackmailing of Congressman Moore is known by someone outside the original group.”

“And who would that be?”

“Jack Lortch, he’s the special agent in-“

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“I know who he is. How did he find out?” Nance glanced toward the veranda and then told Arthur about the confrontation between Garret and Lortch. When he was done, Arthur asked, “And how do you think Mr. Lortch found out?”

“I think that Mr. Garret wasn’t as careful as he should have been.”

“I would concur.” Arthur was not an animated person, but Nance had expected him to display some type of reaction. Instead he got nothing.

“What do you want to do about Lortch?” asked Nance.

Arthur paused for a minute and pondered the question. “For now, nothing. I read his personality profile about four years ago; he’s not the type to go to the press. Besides, the

Secret Service is not in the business of embarrassing the President. In the meantime, tell

Mr. Garret to back off, and I’ll prepare a contingency plan to deal with Mr. Lortch if he presses the point.”

“I’ve already told Garret to back off, and he’s obliged.”

“Have you told him anything about my proposition?”

“No, I only said that you wanted to talk to us. As far as he knows, I’m in the dark.”

“Good.”

“Are you still going to tell him?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea. You’ve always told me not to trust amateurs.”

“I’ve always told you to trust no one.” Turning and walking across the room, Arthur looked up at the stacks of books that covered an entire wall of the study and sighed.

Nance obediently followed him, saying nothing, just walking quietly two steps behind his mentor. “Mr. Garret has his faults, but he is a highly driven man who will do anything to succeed. He was loose-lipped about the Congressman Moore thing because he didn’t see the risks inherent in not keeping his mouth shut. Thanks to Mr. Lortch, he has learned his lesson. Besides, with someone like Mr. Garret, his ability to keep a secret is directly related to the seriousness of the issue. The more he stands to lose, the more apt he will be to stay quiet. If we up the ante, Mr. Garret will stay quiet.”

“I see your line of logic, but are you sure we need him?”

“Yes, there are some concessions I’m going to want for helping him.”

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Nance nodded his head. “As you wish.”

“Let’s join our friend.” Before going outside, Arthur picked up the humidor and offered a cigar to Nance and then took one for himself.

The two then walked toward the French doors and out into the dark fall night. Garret was standing at the edge of the veranda nervously waiting to be called back inside. He knew Nance was telling Arthur about the problem with Lortch, and he was worried about how Arthur would react. He had heard some scary stories regarding the former black-operations director for the CIA. Arthur Higgins had directed some of the Agency’s most secret operations for almost thirty years before being forced out.

The official reason given for his departure was his age and the fall of the Iron Curtain.

But the whispers in the intelligence community were that he couldn’t be controlled-that he had decided one too many times to run his own operation, independent of executive and congressional approval. Garret turned when he heard the dress shoes of Nance and

Arthur on the brick patio. “How do you like the view?” asked Arthur.

During the five minutes that Garret had been outside, he hadn’t even noticed the great dark expanse of the Chesapeake that was before him.

He glanced over his shoulder to look at it and said, “It sure is a lot bigger than I

thought.” Arthur smiled inwardly, knowing that Garret was not the type to appreciate the majesty of nature. He was such a simple, uncomplicated man. Not dumb, just one—

dimensional and focused.

He was easy to predict, which suited Arthur’s needs perfectly. Arthur looked at Garret with his calm and confident face and in his smooth voice said, “Mr. Garret, I think I may be able to help you.”

MCMAHON THOUGHT THAT, AFTER THE MEETING WITH THE

PRESIDENT on Friday night, he would be spending all weekend with a team of agents poring over Special Forces personnel files. The President’s promise of complete cooperation was short-lived. Saturday and Sunday had passed without a single file being reviewed. Someone had managed to change the President’s mind, and McMahon had a good idea who it was.

Late Sunday, McMahon received word through the Joint Chiefs that he was to show up at the Pentagon on Monday morning at 7 A.M. sharp. He was told he could bring two people to assist him in the reviewing of a select group of files. Just how select these files were, McMahon could only wonder. One thing was certain though, his patience was running thin. As McMahon walked down a long, stark hall, located somewhere in the basement of the Pentagon, he wondered if this would be a waste of his time or if they were finally done jerking him around. He had decided to bring Kennedy and Jennings with him, and the three of them obediently followed the Army lieutenant who was

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escorting them to the Pentagon’s offices for the Joint Special Operations Command, or

JSOC, pronounced “jaysock.” The actual field headquarters was located at Pope Air

Force Base in North Carolina. They had already passed through three security checkpoints by the time they reached their destination.

At the door to JSOC they were asked for their identification by a Marine sitting behind bulletproof Plexiglas. After verifying their IDS, the Marine pressed a button and the outer door opened. The Army lieutenant led the three visitors into a comfortable and functional reception area, where he told them to take a seat. Several minutes later a one-star general emerged with a cup of coffee in his left hand.

The man had short, bristly, black hair and was about five ten. The dark green shoulder boards holding his general’s star jutted straight out from his neck. He was a poster board

U.S. Marine, from his square jaw to his perfectly pressed pants and spit-shined shoes.

McMahon couldn’t help but notice that the general’s shoulders were almost twice as broad as his waist. Most of the generals that McMahon knew showed a little more in the area of girth than this one. The general stuck out his right hand. “Special Agent McMahon, General Heaney. Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you, General.” McMahon winced slightly as the bones in his hand were squeezed tightly together by the pit bull standing before him.

“This must be Dr. Kennedy and Special Agent Jennings.” Jennings and Kennedy shook Heaney’s hand.

McMahon flexed his hand in an effort to shake the sting from the general’s handshake. “Would any of you like some coffee before we get started?” McMahon and

Kennedy said yes, and the general led them down the hall to a small kitchen. He grabbed a pot of coffee and said, “You may want to add some water to this. I make my coffee a little on the thick side.” McMahon took a sip and agreed. “Special Agent Jennings, can I

get you a soda or something?”

“Do you have any diet Coke?”

“I keep a private stash in my office. Hold on, I’ll be right back.”

“Sir, please don’t bother. Water will be fine.”

“It’s no bother at all.” The general disappeared down the hallway. A moment later, the general came around the corner with two cans of diet Coke. “I brought an extra one just in case you’re really thirsty.”

Jennings extended her hands. “Thank you, sir. You didn’t have to go to all that trouble.”

“No trouble at all.

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Come on, let’s go down the hall. I want to introduce you to someone.”

They all left the room and walked down several doors. The general stopped and ushered them into a state-of-the-art conference room. Each spot at the table was equipped with a phone, a retractable keyboard, and a computer monitor mounted underneath the surface of the conference table. “This is where we’ll be spending most of our time. Please, make yourselves comfortable. I’ll be back in a minute.” When the general returned several minutes later, he was carrying a stack of files and was accompanied by a senior female naval officer. “Everyone, this is Captain Mcfarland. She is our unit psychologist.”

Dr. Mcfarland introduced herself to everyone while General Heaney arranged the files into three stacks on the table. “We’ve got one more person joining us.” The general pressed the intercom button in front of him and said, “Mike, would you please send Mr.

Delapena in.”

“Yes, sir.” The general looked up from the phone and asked everyone to be seated. A

moment later a man in a blue suit and striped tie entered the conference room and placed a briefcase on the floor next to his chair. The man was of average height and weight, with fair skin and a deeply receding hairline. The general introduced him only as Mr.

Delapena. McMahon stared at him intently, trying to decipher what a nonmilitary person had to do with the Special Forces. “Mr. Delapena, you didn’t say which agency you were affiliated with.”

“I work for the National Security Agency.”

“What does the NSA have to do with this case?”

“The NSA is involved in the safeguarding and dissemination of any information pertaining to the national security of the United States.”

“So Mr. Nance sent you to keep an eye on things?”

Delapena looked at the general but did not respond to McMahon’s question. After several moments of awkward silence the general clapped his hands together and said, “All right, let’s get started.” The general patted his hands on two of the three stacks he had sitting in front of him. “These are the personnel files of all black, retired Special

Forces commandos between the age of twenty-four and thirty-four. They are arranged in stacks according to which organization they served under.

The stack on my left consists of former Green Berets, the stack in the middle is made up of Delta Force commandos, and the one on the end is Navy SEALS. There are one hundred and twenty-one African-Americans between the age of twenty-four and thirty-four that are retired Green Berets, thirty-four Delta Force commandos, and two Navy

SEALS. “Before we go any further, I would ask that if you decide to contact any of these individuals you would allow us to accompany you?” The general looked to McMahon for the answer. “I don’t see a problem with that.”

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The general nodded and then handed three files across the table.

McMahon opened the file and looked up and down the single sheet of paper. It contained a photograph stapled to the upper-right corner and a list of basic information including birth date, Social Security number, educational background, date of enlistment, and date of discharge.

McMahon flipped the page over and it was blank. Moving only his eyes, McMahon looked up at the general. “Where are the psychological profiles and performance reviews?” The general looked to Delapena and then McMahon. “At the direction of the

Joint Chiefs and the NSA, they were pulled.” McMahon tossed the file back across the table and said, “This does me absolutely no good. I need to establish a motive, and I can’t do it with a photograph, a date of birth, and an educational summary. The President promised me that I would be given full cooperation.” McMahon looked away from the general to Delapena. “Does the President know about this?”

“Mike Nance has briefed him thoroughly.”

“I’ll bet he has ….

Okay, if you guys want to do this the hard way, that’s fine with me, because I’m done screwing around. We’ve got two dead Congressman, two dead Senators, and an attempt has been made on the President’s life.”

McMahon gritted his teeth and pointed across the table at Delapena.

“The biggest threat to national security right now is the people responsible for those murders. I could care less about some operation you guys ran in some jerkwater, third-world country ten years ago.”

McMahon stood up and said to Kennedy and Jennings, “Come on, let’s go.”

Looking at Delapena he said, “If this is the way you want to do this, I’ll be back tomorrow with a stack of subpoenas and fifty agents.”

Kennedy and Jennings stood and started for the door. The general looked at

Delapena, silently urging him to say something. As they reached the door, Delapena said, “No, you won’t.”

“What did you say?” McMahon asked as he turned around. “I don’t think that would be a very good idea.”

“Listen here, Mr. Delapena, let’s get something straight. I work for the FBI, and you work for the NSA. This is a domestic investigation, and we have the jurisdiction, not you.

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The law is very clear on this, and considering the high profile of this case, I will have no problem finding a judge that will grant me a broad and sweeping subpoena.”

“And I will have no problem finding a judge to block it. You see, Mr. McMahon, the laws regarding issues of national security are also very broad and sweeping.”

McMahon walked back, leaned over, and placed both hands on the table.

He brought his face to within a foot of Delapena’s and said, “You tell Mike Nance that if he tries to block my subpoena, I’ll file an obstruction of justice charge against the

NSA and hold the biggest press conference this town has ever seen. I’m sure the media would love to find out that the FBI believes these murders were committed by United

States-trained military commandos. And I’m sure they’ll find it even more interesting that

NSA is trying to block our investigation.”

McMahon backed up.

“Those cynical bastards will eat you alive.”

“Mr. McMahon, if you breathe a word of this to the media, you’ll be out of a job.”

McMahon felt his temper stirring and strained to keep it in check. “Come on, Delapena, you’ve got to do better than that.

You have absolutely no leverage on this.” McMahon turned to the general. “All I

have to do is hint at your lack of cooperation to the media and every Congressman and

Senator will be over here demanding that you open your files. And not just the files I’m interested in, they’ll want to see everything.

They’ll threaten to cut every penny of funding from your budget, and then they’ll set up a series of committees to investigate any wrongdoing. They’ll be all over your case for the next two years.”

The tension built as McMahon refused to back down. General Heaney sat with his hand over his brow wishing the whole problem would go away, and Delapena fidgeted with a pen he’d pulled out of his pocket. They both knew McMahon was right, but neither had the authority to do anything about it. People above them were calling the shots. Out of frustration, Delapena said, “Mr. McMahon, you go ahead and do what you have to do, but you don’t have a shred of evidence that these murders were committed by military personnel. And don’t forget, there will be a lot of Congressman and Senators that will be offended that you would imply such a thing.” McMahon ignored Delapena and looked to the general. “Sir, have you seen the autopsy reports for Fitzgerald, Koslowski, Downs, and Basset? The general nodded his head yes. “Did you notice how Senator Fitzgerald was killed?”

“Yes.”

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“How many people do you know who are capable of breaking a man’s neck with their bare hands?”

The general looked at McMahon and said, “Not very many.”

“General, you know as well as I do that the people behind this are former U.S.

commandos. Former commandos with an awfully big ax to grind, and the answer is somewhere in your psychological profiles and fitness reports.”

The general looked to Delapena and then back at McMahon. “I agree with you, but unfortunately my hands are tied. You don’t think I realize how bad it’s going to look if the word leaks that a group of my former boys are doing this and we blocked your investigation?” The general made a tight fist and rapped his knuckles on the table. “The issue for us is not that we don’t want to help you, it’s that we have some real security concerns.

The Special Forces community is a very tight-lipped fraternity. We are not prone to sharing information with outsiders. Our success and survival is dependent on secrecy.”

The general pushed his chair back and stood, walking to the opposite end of the table.

“The full package of each commando contains information regarding every mission he took part in, the other members of the mission, a mission summary, and a whole bevy of top secret information. There are very few people that have the clearance to look at the full personnel file of one of my boys. I can’t just open those files to you. There’s too much at stake.”

“I see your point, General, but how do you expect me to conduct an investigation without that information?” Delapena addressed the question. “Mr. McMahon, I don’t envy your job, but you have to understand the innate conflict of interest confronting our two agencies.”

“I understand your concern over security, but…” McMahon opened his eyes wide and shook his head. “I think the apprehension of these killers is more important.”

“It may be more important right now, but these security issues could have far—

reaching implications.”

“Farther reaching than the murders of United States Congressman and Senators?

These guys aren’t going to just quit and go home.” Kennedy decided it was time for her to insert her gentle style into the conversation. “Skip, the general and Mr. Delapena are not just being paranoid about security. If I was in their position, I wouldn’t want to open those files to the FBI.” She turned her attention to the other two men. “On the other hand, Mr. Delapena and General Heaney, you must also understand the crisis that the FBI is faced with resolving.”

Kennedy pulled her glasses off and twirled them in her right hand.

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“What we should be trying to do is find a way to bridge both of our concerns.”

Kennedy pointed her glasses at the general and Delapena. “The FBI needs your help to run a speedy investigation. No one knows your files better than you do, and I’m sure you can offer us great insight into which of your former members are most inclined to mount a revolution against their own government. On the other hand, if word got to the press that the NSA was blocking the FBI’s investigation of former U.S. commandos, the damage to both the NSA and the Special Forces would be devastating.

“We need to work together, and I think I may have a solution. My thought is that all of the people in this room could form a review panel. In trade for the full cooperation of the NSA and the Joint Special Operations Command, Special Agent McMahon and

Special Agent Jennings should sign a national security nondisclosure document that would block them from investigating and litigating anything that is not directly related to these recent assassinations.

This way, we can abate your anxiety over having several dozen FBI agents rifling through your files, and at the same time the FBI can be guaranteed full cooperation from the people with the most insight into these young men’s minds.” Everyone thought about the new proposal, and then General Heaney pronounced, “I like the idea.”

“I’m not completely sure,” said Delapena. “I have no problem including you, Dr.

Kennedy. Your security clearance is higher than anyone’s in this room. If Special Agent

McMahon was willing to sign a national security nondisclosure document, I could probably convince my superiors to sign off, but Special Agent Jennings is out of the question.”

“Why?” asked McMahon.

“Special Agent Jennings has a long career ahead of her with the FBI, and over the next thirty years she will be transferred in and out of no less than three departments.

During that time it will be very hard for her to ignore some of the things she may learn. I

know my superiors would not accept her.” Delapena said this as if Jennings weren’t in the room.

McMahon looked at Kennedy and then at Delapena. “I’ll agree to it, if I get full cooperation.” Delapena nodded and looked at his watch.

“There are some people I need to get ahold of before they head into a meeting.

General, may I use your office?” The general said yes, and Delapena left the room.

McMahon walked back around the table and took a seat.

“General, were you serious when you said you believed the men committing these assassinations are former commandos?”

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The general cocked his head sideways and said, “I was serious, very serious ….

The men we recruit to become Special Forces COMMANDOS are a unique breed.

Dr. Mcfarland, would you please give our guests the psychological profile of the average commando.” The doctor started to speak with clinical neutrality.

“The typical COMMANDO is a man with an above average to high IQ who is extremely fit. He is a man who on the surface seems hard, callous, and emotionally indifferent. In truth, he is an extremely emotional and compassionate person. He is often obsessed with winning. He hates to lose, but is rarely willing to cheat or lie to win. He holds himself to a very high standard of honor and integrity and despises people who lie and lack character. He would, without thought or hesitation, give his life to save the life of a fellow commando. His biggest fear is that he will have wasted his life by not pushing himself hard enough.

He despises people who live their lives unjustly. He dislikes politicians and bureaucrats and displays an open animosity towards them. He is trained to kill in a lethal and efficient manner and, over time, comes to accept it as a just and reasonable way to solve a problem. If you can convince him that a person is bad enough, he will pull the trigger with a clear conscience. Of course, there are exceptions to this, but for the most part this is the norm.” General Heaney let his arm drop down on the table. “I have been involved in the Special Forces for over thirty years, and I couldn’t begin to count how many times I’ve heard one of my fellow commandos say that they would love to kill this

Congressman or that Senator. You see, we are not only taught how to kill, but for our own sanity, we are taught to look at killing as a justifiable action in a world where there are good and bad people, where the bad people are not supposed to win. “Think for a minute about what we ask a commando to do. We send them to do some very ugly things, and we tell them they are doing it to protect the United States of America. As commandos, we rationalize that we are ridding the world of a bad person, that we are protecting America.

What do you think would happen if one of these highly trained individuals realized that the politicians running his own country pose a bigger threat to the security of

America’s future than the religious extremist that he just flew halfway around the world to kill?” The general looked hard at McMahon. “If these men think the real threat facing

America comes from within, that the real threat comes from, quote, ‘a group of old men that are mortgaging the future of the country for their own selfish needs…”” The general let the words of the assassins hang in the air. “Mr. McMahon, I have very little doubt that the people behind this are United States-trained commandos.”

MICHAEL AND SEAMUS O’Rourke WALKED INTO THE PLUSH

RESTAURANT and were greeted by a slight man wearing a tuxedo. Both O’Rourkes were impeccably dressed in dark wool suits. The maitre d’ looked up’ along his thin nose and said, “May I help you?”

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“Three for lunch please,” said Michael. “Do you have a reservation?”

“Yes, I think it’s under Olson.” The maitre d’ looked at his reservation book and clapped his hands together. “Oh, you must be Congressman O’Rourke. And you must be the Congressman’s father.”

“No, I’m his grandfather.”

“Oh.” The maitre d’ looked down at the reservation book. “Senator Olson’s secretary requested a private corner table.” He grabbed three menus from under the podium. “if you will follow me, I’ll show you to your table.” It was eleven forty-five and the restaurant was almost empty. Busboys were shuffling back and forth preparing each table for the busy lunch crowd. The maitre d’ glided between the tables, his chin held high, leading them to a circular table in the far corner.

Stepping aside, he held a chair out for the older of the two O’Rourkes.

Seamus sat down and the maitre d’ pushed in the chair. The maitre d’ stepped back, bowed, and said, “Enjoy.” Seamus grabbed his napkin and asked, “What’s the word on this budget summit that they had at Camp David?”

“They reported on the morning news that they cut one hundred billion dollars from

Stevens’s budget.” Michael raised one of his eyebrows, showing what he thought of the reports. “I take it you don’t believe they actually did it.”

“They reported it as a rumor. That means one of two things: no one knows what actually happened, or it was leaked to test the waters.”

“Which do you think it was?”

“I’m not sure.” Michael looked toward the entrance of the restaurant.

Senator Olson had just entered with his bodyguards. “We’ll find out soon enough.

Erik is here.” Senator Olson and four serious-looking men walked across the restaurant led by the maitre d’.

Michael and Seamus stood to meet their friend. Olson pushed his way by two of the guards and the maitre d’, extending his hand toward the older of the two O’Rourkes.

“Seamus, I didn’t know you were in town.

When did you get in?”

“Friday morning.” Olson shook his hand and then Michael’s.

The maitre d’ seated the four Secret Service agents at the next table.

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Three of them sat with their backs to Olson and the O’Rourkes and one sat facing them. After sitting, Olson looked at Seamus and frowned.

“Knowing your disdain for Washington, I assume there must be something pretty important going on for you to come here.” The statement was met with a slight grin. “Not really, I had some business to take care of, and I wanted an excuse to visit Michael and

Tim.”

“Is everything all right at the mill?” The O’Rourke Timber Company was the largest employer in Grand Rapids and thus a political concern for Olson. “The mill is doing fine, in spite of all the interference I’m getting from your friends over at the EPA, the

Commerce Department, and the Department of the Interior.” A waiter approached the table and greeted them. Olson was thankful for the distraction. He admired Seamus but was not always comfortable with his penchant for direct confrontation. He’d noticed recently that Michael, like his father before him, had inherited this honest, but not always pleasant, Irish attribute. The waiter asked if they would like anything to drink.

Erik and Seamus ordered iced tea and Michael ordered a Coke. Olson informed them that the Joint Intelligence Committee was to reconvene at 1 P.M and if it was all right with them, he’d like to order lunch while the waiter was there. The O’Rourkes agreed and they placed their orders. As soon as the waiter left, Seamus looked across the circular table and said, “Erik, I understand you were involved in the budget summit at Camp

David this weekend.” Olson looked down and brushed his hand across the white tablecloth as if he were cleaning crumbs away.

Looking up with shame in his eyes, he said, “Yes, I was there.”

“How did it go?”

“I’d rather not say.” Seamus gave him a tightly screwed frown as if he was offended.

Olson shrugged his shoulders and said, “The President asked us to keep quiet about the details.”

“They were saying on the morning news that you cut one hundred billion dollars from the budget. Is that true?” asked Michael in a doubtful tone. “You don’t sound like you believe it,” said Olson. “I don’t think you can get the two parties together and cut one hundred billion dollars in two days.” Olson looked blankly at Michael and then Seamus.

“You’d be amazed what people are capable of doing when they’re backed into a corner.” The disgust was openly visible on his face.

“Erik, what happened up there?” asked Seamus. “I promised the President I wouldn’t talk about it.” Michael leaned closer to Olson and looked him in the eye. “Erik, if you don’t think you can trust us, this town has really gotten the best of you.” Olson looked at

Michael and then Seamus, thinking about the close friendship between their two families.

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Michael’s father had been Erik’s best friend. The O’Rourkes were the most honest people he knew. When they gave their word, they meant it.

Olson fidgeted in his chair and leaned forward. Seamus and Michael did the same.

“I’ll tell you what happened, but you have to promise me you will tell no one.” Seamus and Michael nodded yes. “That means no one.

Especially Liz, Michael.”

“You have my word.” Olson slowly recounted the weekend’s events.

Michael and Seamus listened intently and stayed quiet.

Five minutes into Olson’s account, lunch was served. The plates were pushed aside as

Olson continued to recount the President and Garret’s plan to mislead the public. Olson became more animated and angry as he explained in detail how they were going to actually spend more money and, through accounting gimmicks, say they were cutting the budget.

The same was true for the O’Rourkes. The more they heard, the more they strained to keep their mouths shut. When Olson was done, he sat back in his chair and took a large gulp of water. Seamus was the first to speak.

With his deep, weathered voice he said, “Those bastards all deserve to die.” The severity of the comment almost caused Olson to spit his water back up. “You don’t really mean that, do you?”

“You’re damn right I do.”

Olson looked to Michael, and Michael said nothing. “Seamus, don’t you think that statement is a little harsh considering recent events?” The older of the O’Rourkes repeated his conviction. “Those corrupt bastards deserved to die, too.”

“You can’t be serious?”

“I’m very serious. They were running this country right into the ground, and I couldn’t be happier now that they’re dead.”

“It doesn’t scare you in the slightest that some group of terrorists has decided to circumvent the democratic process?”

“One man’s terrorist is another man’s freedom fighter.”

“Did you learn that one from the IRA?” Olson regretted the shot before he’d finished making it. It was not a good idea to provoke Seamus.

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Seamus sat like a rock, his eyes burrowing deeper and deeper into Olson’s, his large fist clenched on top of the table. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.” Seamus O’Rourke was financially involved with the Irish Republican Army in the years following World War II.

Seamus was born in Ireland and moved to the United States with his parents at a very young age. He believed strongly in Ireland’s right to self-rule and thought Britain’s conquest of Ireland was no different from their conquest of India or any of the other colonies. He supported the IRA’s paramilitary efforts until they started setting off bombs and killing innocent people. That was too much. Fighting for independence like a disciplined soldier was one thing, fighting for it like a cheap thug was another.

Olson broke the silence. “You don’t really think what these assassins have done is justifiable?”

“Not only do I think it’s justifiable, I think it’s necessary.”

“I can’t believe I’m hearing this. I mean, I know you don’t like politicians, Seamus, but you can’t really believe those men deserved to die.”

“I do.”

“Have you lost all faith in the democratic process, in the people’s ability to effect change by voting?”

“The system has become too complicated and corrupt. Every single candidate lies to get elected and then sells his soul to the parasite special-interest groups who gave him the money to run his campaign.

The two-party system has made change impossible. No one’s willing to face the real problems and do what’s right.”

“I acknowledge that things could be better, but we still have the best leadership and political system in the world.” Seamus laughed out loud.

“That’s debatable, and even if you’re right, it won’t be true for long.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Look at the numbers, Erik. We’re going bankrupt, both morally and financially. We need some drastic changes, or the most powerful country in the world is going to go the way of Rome.”

“And violence is the way to bring that change about?” Seamus rubbed his chin.

“Maybe.”

Olson shook his head sideways. “Violence is not the answer.” The Senator looked out the window as if Seamus didn’t deserve the courtesy of eye contact. “Violence is never

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the answer.” Seamus’s complexion reddened, and he slammed his fist down on the table.

The silverware, plates, and glasses shook, and the Secret Service agents at the next table snapped their heads around. Seamus ignored them and leaned toward Olson. “Erik, I don’t mind a healthy debate, but don’t ever use a line of crap like that on me again. I’m not one of your na№ve college students, and I’m not some little sycophant political activist.

I’ve seen people killed, and I’ve killed people in the service of our country. Your idealistic, philosophical theories might fly in the hallowed halls of Congress, but they don’t work in the real world.

Violence is a fact of life. There are people who are willing to use it to get what they want, and in order to stop them they need to be met with violence. If it wasn’t for war, or the threat of waging war, people like Adolf Hitler and Joseph Stalin would be running the world, and you would get shot for going around saying stupid things like ‘violence only begets violence.”” Olson was embarrassed. He was not used to being spoken to in such a manner. The oldest O’Rourke took words more seriously than most people, and Olson had forgotten that the art of debate, as it was practiced in Washington, did not work on men and women who had no time for political posturing.

Seamus O’Rourke was not a man to be patronized with political or philosophical slogans. Olson exhaled deeply and said, “Seamus, I apologize. The last couple of weeks have been very hard on me, and I’m not feeling very well.” Seamus nodded his head, accepting the apology.

Olson sat back and rubbed his eyes. “This entire thing is wearing me down.” Michael placed a hand on the Senator’s shoulder. “Erik, are you all right?”

“Physically, yes. mentally, I’m not so sure.” His hands dropped limply to his lap.

“You’re right about the debt, Michael. You’ve been harping on me about it for years, and deep down inside I always knew you were right. I just thought that when things got tough the two parties would put aside their differences and do what was right. Well, I was wrong.

Here we are in the midst of the biggest peacetime crisis we’ve seen since the

Depression, and what do we do? We come up with some gimmick that’s meant to deceive the American people and these damn assassins!”

Olson stopped and shook his finger. “And it’s all the President’s and that damn Stu

Garret’s fault! At the one time when we really need leadership, we have none. Those two self-centered idiots are running around taking opinion polls, if you can believe it!”

Michael nodded.

“Oh, I can believe it. They only have one thing on their mind, Erik—how they’re going to win the election next year.”

“You are absolutely right, and I’m sick of it.”

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“What are you going to do about it?” asked Seamus. “I’m going to give the President a week to put together a new budget with some real cuts in it, and if he does, I will sign on.”

“What will you do if he sends this current one to the House?” asked Michael. “I will expose it for what it is-a sham.” Michael felt a wave of confidence rush over him. With

Erik taking the lead on this, the President would be forced to make real cuts. The senior

Senator looked down at his watch and said, “Damn! My committee meeting starts in five minutes.” Olson looked up for their waiter, who was nowhere in sight.

Next he reached for his wallet and Seamus placed a hand on his arm, stopping him.

“Don’t worry, Erik. After what you’ve just told me, I’ll be more than happy to take care of the bill.” Olson stood and grinned.

Slapping Seamus on the back, he said, “You’re a pain in the ass, Seamus, but I love you. You have a unique and refreshing way of putting things into context. We could use a couple more of you around here just to keep the rest of us on our toes.” Michael shook

Olson’s hand and said, “Anything you need, call me.” Olson nodded and left.

Michael and Seamus watched him leave and then Seamus paid the tab. As they walked out onto the sidewalk, the sun was just starting to peek out from behind the clouds. Michael had told Seamus of his meeting with Scott Coleman.

Seamus’s only response was, “Stay out of the man’s way. If he’s behind it, we should all be grateful.” Michael thought his grandfather was carrying it a little too far, but for the time being he agreed that it would be best to give Coleman room. If Coleman was behind the assassinations, which Michael had little doubt about at this point, then his fake missile attack on the President’s helicopter was ingenious. He had sent a clear message that no one was out of his reach. Now if Erik could exert enough political pressure on the White

House, everything would fall into place. They stopped at the first intersection and were waiting for the light to change when Michael turned and saw Senator Olson’s limousine pull out of the underground parking garage a half block down the street. The large, dark car turned toward them, its powerful engine roaring as it pulled out into traffic. Michael watched as it approached, then the high-pitched whine of a motorcycle caught his attention. The sleek black bike broke away from the rest of the traffic and raced toward them. The driver and his passenger were both wearing dark helmets and black leather pants and jackets. The limo approached the intersection and stopped as the light turned red. The other pedestrians started to walk and then stopped as the high-pitched whine of the motorcycle’s engine reverberated off the surrounding buildings.

Michael stuck his arm out in front of Seamus and focused on the motorcycle as it raced up the street. The dark bike and its riders darted in between the rows of cars that had stopped for the light and continued to accelerate. The bike approached the Senator’s limousine, and then, suddenly, the man riding on the back leaned out and tossed a dark

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bag onto the roof of the limo. The bike continued on, skidding into a hard right turn and slicing through the lanes of traffic.

Michael looked at the bag and instinctively turned to shield Seamus.

The noise was deafening. The roof of the limo imploded, and the tinted windows blasted outward, propelled by bright orange and red flames.

The explosion rocked the entire block, throwing the O’Rourkes and the other pedestrians violently to the ground.

PRESIDENT STEVENS WAS PRESIDING OVER A CABINET MEETING WHEN

JACK Lortch entered the room and walked up behind him. Lortch bent over and whispered into Stevens’s ear. Without warning, Stevens slammed his fist down on the table and shouted an expletive. The President stood so quickly he almost knocked his chair over. Pointing at Mike Nance, who was sitting at the opposite end of the table, he yelled, “My office, right now!” On his way toward the door, he slapped Garret on the shoulder and said, “Come on, Stu, you too.”

Stevens, Garret, Nance, and Lortch filed out of the room, leaving the wide-eyed cabinet members wondering what was going on. The distance between the Cabinet Room and the Oval Office was less than thirty feet.

Stevens was walking fast and shaking his head. When he reached the door to his office, he abruptly stopped and started back in the opposite direction. Lortch, Nance, and

Garret stopped as Stevens pointed down the hall and said, “Let’s do this in the Situation

Room.”

As he passed Mike Nance, he pointed at him and said, “Get Stansfield, Roach, and

Tracy over here immediately.” No one talked as they followed Stevens down the stairs to the basement. A posted agent opened the door to the Situation Room, and the President, Garret, Nance, and Lortch entered. Stevens picked up a remote that was sitting on top of the large conference table and pointed it at the far wall.

As the wood panel slid to the side revealing eight television sets, the President looked at the TVS and muttered, “This is unbelievable.” Five of the eight TVS were broadcasting images of Olson’s charred limo.

Garret looked at Mike Nance, but Nance ignored him. Garret then looked at Stevens and tried to get a read on his temperament. Garret attempted to ask a question, but before he could get more than two words out, Stevens said, “Quiet. I don’t want to hear anyone say a word.” They all watched the TVS in silence. About five minutes later, Secret

Service director Tracy arrived, and he and Lortch retreated to the far corner to talk.

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The President stepped even closer to the TVS and turned up the volume, drowning out the noise of the conversation behind him. Roach arrived a short while later, and

Stansfield almost twenty minutes after the call had gone out. After several minutes of

Stevens not acknowledging the arrival of the three directors, Garret walked up beside him and said, “Jim, everyone is here.” Stevens walked to the head of the table and stood between the rest of the room and the TVS. Looking down the long table, he said, “Sit!”

Everyone took a chair and Stevens began squeezing the back of his high leather chair.

With a look of utter frustration Stevens asked, “Can anyone tell me how in the hell a

United States Senator gets killed in broad daylight less than a mile from the White

House?” No one answered the question. The silence added to the frustration Stevens felt, and a rage started to press its way forward from the back of his head. In a crisp, stern voice Stevens said, “I’ve got some things to say, and I don’t want to hear anyone speak until I’m done.” Pausing for a moment, he put his hands on his hips and closed his eyes .

“I want this killing to stop, and I want it to stop right now. I don’t care what it takes. I

don’t care what laws have to be bent or broken. I want these bastards caught.” Stevens opened his eyes and looked at Director Roach. “Does the FBI have any suspects?” Roach shifted in his chair uncomfortably.

“Mr. President, this investigation is not even two weeks old.”

“Are you any closer to catching these people than you were a week and a half ago?”

Roach looked back at Stevens but didn’t answer. His silence was answer enough. “I didn’t think so.”

Stevens closed his eyes again, the frustration evident on his face.

Without looking up he snapped, “I’m done screwing around. We have to catch these bastards, and we have to do it quickly. I want the CIA and the National Security Agency to get involved. I want surveillance and wiretaps set up on anyone who we think could be remotely involved in this. The FBI can continue to run its investigation through the proper legal channels, but I want the NSA and the CIA to start bugging every phone between here and Seattle.” Garret’s eyes opened wide at the mention of wiretaps. He threw his hand up to catch the President’s attention. “Jim, I think we need to talk to the

Justice Department before we start running around-” “Shut up, Stu. I’m not done.” The unprecedented rebuke immediately silenced Garret. He sank back into his chair and

Stevens continued. “We are in the middle of a crisis, and I’m not going to sit around and wait for the FBI to do this by the book. We don’t have the time. The CIA and the NSA

are better equipped to get quick results and do it without raising too much attention. I

want phones bugged, and I want them bugged now. I want every militia group in the country shaken down for information. If we still think these assassins are former commandos, I want every former commando questioned by the end of the week, and the ones that look suspicious—bug their phones and set up surveillance. I want results, damn it!” Garret tried again to dissuade his boss. “Jim, there are some serious legal issues that need to be addressed before we run off half-cocked.”

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“I don’t want to hear about it, Stu. Don’t tell me there aren’t ways to do it. I’ll sign an executive order, I’ll sign a national security directive, I’ll declare martial law if I have to, but I want these bastards caught, and I want it done quickly!” Stevens tossed the remote control onto the table. “Figure out the logistics and make it work. I want the CIA and the

NSA involved, and I don’t want any leaks to the press. Am I understood?” All heads in the room nodded yes, and Stevens moved for the door, saying, “Stu and Mike, when you’re done down here, come up to my office.” A Secret Service agent opened the door and the President shouted over his shoulder on the way out, “I want everyone back here at seven A.M. tomorrow, and I want some results.”

Darkness was falling on the city. Michael stared out the window at the bright fall leaves hanging from the old oak tree in front of his house.

He breathed deeply and ran his fingers through Liz’s thick, black hair, while rubbing his stiff neck with his other hand. Michael sat on the couch with his feet up on the coffee table. Liz had both arms wrapped around his waist, and her head rested on his chest. Her feet were tucked up behind her on the couch, and she listened to Michael’s heartbeat. The rhythm of it brought her in and out of a light sleep.

Liz had been in a meeting with her editor when the news of Olson’s assassination broke.

Knowing that Michael was eating lunch with the Senator, she rushed to find out if he was all right. Michael’s secretary informed her that he was unhurt and on his way home.

Liz left the office immediately and took a cab to Michael’s house. When she arrived, she found Michael and Tim sitting at the dining room table talking. Seamus was being held in the hospital overnight for observation. The explosion had knocked him to the ground and given him a minor concussion. After Liz’s arrival Tim left so Michael and Liz could be alone. For the last two hours they had sat on the couch and said little. They just held each other.

Michael’s eyes were wide open, and the look on his face was one of deep thought. Liz stirred slightly and Michael brought his other hand down to rub her back. Scarlatti moaned and rolled over. She looked up at Michael with her deep brown eyes and asked, “What time is it?”

“It’s ten after five.”

She reached up and gently touched the bandage on his forehead. “How does your head feel?”

“Fine.” Scarlatti closed her eyes and lifted her head off Michael’s chest. O’Rourke bent down and kissed her lips. Liz pulled away and asked, “What are you going to do?”

“I’m not sure.”

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“I think you should go to the FBI.”

“I need to talk to him first.” Liz sat up. “Who is this guy?”

“I’m not dragging you any further into this thing.”

“You’re not dragging me anywhere. I want to know.” Michael shook his head. “You know enough, trust me.”

“I can understand your not wanting to tell me, but I think you should tell the FBI

immediately. You owe it to Erik.”

“I’m going to meet with him first.” Liz put both hands on his chest and pushed him back. “No you’re not! I will not allow it!” Michael grabbed her wrists and said, “Don’t worry, Liz. I’ll be fine.”

Scarlatti became angry. “Don’t give me that Marine Corps macho bullshit! Whoever this guy is, he’s a cold-blooded murderer and I don’t want you meeting him alone.” Liz looked into his eyes and knew she wasn’t getting through.

“If you leave this house, I’m calling the FBI.” Michael placed her hands together and looked her softly in the eyes. “Elizabeth, this man thinks of me as a brother. He would never do anything to harm me.”

Liz yanked her hands away. “You are not going to be able to change my mind on this, Michael. You either tell me who he is or I’m calling the FBI.” Michael thought about it for a full minute and realized they were at an impasse. “You have to promise me that under no circumstances и . .

Never ever. will you reveal his name.” Liz started to protest, but Michael cut her off.

“No negotiating, Liz. If you want to know, you make the promise … and if you ever break it, I will walk out of your life and never speak to you again.” Scarlatti swallowed deeply, the last part of the comment causing a hollow feeling to develop in her stomach.

“All right, I promise.” Michael stood and started to pace in front of the window. “You’ve met him before. twice. His name is Scott Coleman.”

Michael stopped to gauge Liz’s reaction. With eyes open wide she said, “The former

Navy SEAL? The guy you go hunting with all the time?”

Michael nodded yes. “Why? Why would he do all of this. He seems so normal.”

“He is normal. As normal as a SEAL can be, that is. As to the ‘why’ part of your question…” Michael shook his head. “That’s another can of worms, and when I say I can’t tell you about it, I am deathly serious. If I would have kept that secret to myself a year ago, none of this would have ever happened.” Garret was nervous. Things were happening too fast and Stevens’s new unmanageable attitude was only making things

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worse. Garret wasn’t against using the CIA and NSA, just as long as they did it in a way that wouldn’t come back to haunt them down the road. He stabbed out his half-finished cigarette and headed off down the hall. Without knocking, he entered Ted Hopkinson’s office and stood over his desk. Hopkinson was talking on the phone, and Garret signaled for him to end the conversation. Hopkinson cut the other person off in mid-sentence and told her he’d have to call back.

As soon as Hopkinson hung up. Garret set a piece of paper in front of him. Four names were on it. Hopkinson looked at the names and then up at his boss.

“Am I supposed to know who these people are?”

“No, but by tomorrow morning I expect you to know their life stories.”

“Who are they?”

“They are the four Secret Service agents who were blown up with Olson today.”

“And what do you want me to do with the information?”

“We’ve had polls telling us that as much as forty-two percent of the public believes the loss of Fitzgerald, Downs, Koslowski, and Basset may be worth it if it forces

Washington to get spending under control.

Most of them are saying that because they hate politicians. Well, let’s see how many of them still feel that way when they’re introduced to these four men and their families. I

want you to find out what high schools they went to, where their parents live, where they were married, where their kids go to school. I want you to find out everything you can about them. When you’re done, we’ll give it to the right people, and by the end of the week you won’t be able to pick up the paper or turn on the TV without seeing or hearing about these guys and their families. By next Monday I want to see that forty-two percent cut down to single digits.”

Scott Coleman left his apartment and went to the basement before leaving. Out on the front stoop he grabbed a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket and lit one. As always, he puffed on it but did not take the smoke into his lungs. Tilting his head up, he exhaled the smoke and looked at the rooftop and windows of the apartment building across the street.

Next, he took a mental inventory of all the cars parked on the block, paying special attention to any vans he hadn’t seen before.

Last night when he went out, he had headed to the east. Tonight he would head west.

Throwing his cigarette to the ground, he stomped it out with his boot and casually trotted down the steps. He looked relaxed and lackadaisical as he strode down the sidewalk, but inside he was methodically taking note of everything around him. Things were sure to heat up, and sooner or later someone, or some agency, would come looking

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for him. At the next block he stopped and waited to cross the street, using the pause to again look up and down the cross street for any vans or trucks. Crossing the intersection, Coleman turned left, continued for three blocks, and hailed a cab. The cab took him to a small bar near Georgetown. He ordered a beer, drank half of it, and then walked to the rear of the bar, toward the bathroom. Instead of stopping, he continued straight out the back door and into the alley.

He walked at a brisk pace. Four blocks later, he caught another cab and took it to a house in Chevy Chase. The house belonged to a seventy-eight-year-old widow who had rented him her garage for twenty-five dollars a month. He walked along the side of the house to the garage. The keys were already out, and he opened the padlock on the main garage door. Swinging the door upward, he pulled a small black box out of his pocket and held it by his hip. Nonchalantly he walked around the car, looking down at the row of green lights, waiting to see if they would turn red and tell him his car was bugged.

They stayed green. He got in the car, pulled it out of the garage, and then got back out to close the door and lock it. Sliding back behind the wheel of the black sedan, he drove slowly for the first few blocks and then gunned it. He zipped through the city, turning randomly down the narrow streets. The BMW’s diplomatic plates and a Dutch passport he kept taped under the dashboard ensured him that he wouldn’t be detained by the police. The racy driving helped release tension and served to frustrate anyone who might be trying to follow. He pulled the Beamer onto Interstate 95 and kicked in the turbo. He darted in and out of traffic until he reached Highway 50 east to Annapolis.

■

Easing the car between two semi trucks, he slowed down to sixty-five miles an hour and stayed there for about ten minutes. When he reached Highway 424, he took it south.

The clock on the dashboard read 8:10 P.M. He checked the rearview mirror often and began crisscrossing his way down county roads.

Several times, he sped ahead and then pulled off the road, waiting in a patch of trees with his lights off, making sure he wasn’t being tailed.

After having left D.C. almost an hour earlier, he turned onto a narrow, unmarked dirt road. The gravel made a popping noise as the wide touring tires of the BMW rolled over it. The road was lined with trees and thick underbrush. It traveled down a slight hill and cut between two ponds. A thin layer of fog stretched across the gravel, and for a brief moment the BMW was surrounded by a white mist. The car pulled back out of the cloud, ascended another small hill, and then as it crested, the lights of a small cabin could be seen less than a hundred yards away. The car rolled down the gradual slope and stopped in front of the old log cabin.

Coleman got out and looked around. Pausing, he listened for the noise of another car that might have followed him down the gravel road.

Gently, he closed the car door and walked up to the porch. The floorboards creaked as he walked across the porch, and a dog barked from inside the cabin. Without knocking,

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he opened the door and stepped inside. His bright blue eyes stared across the room at the man standing in front of the fireplace. MICHAEL O’ROURKE HELD HIS .45—

CALIBER COMBATMASTER IN ONE HAND and his digital phone in the other.

Coleman looked at the gun and remained calm as Duke scampered

Over to greet him. The former Navy SEAL squatted down to meet the yellow Lab.

Coleman looked at the bandage on Michael’s forehead and asked, “What happened to your head?” Through clenched teeth Michael replied, “I was hit with something when

Erik’s limousine blew up.”

Coleman’s eyes opened wide. “You were there?”

“Yes.”

Michael stared at Coleman’s bright blue eyes and said, “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t call the FBI right now.” Coleman stood and started to walk across the room. Michael raised his gun and said, “Don’t take another step.” In a calm voice

Coleman replied, “I know you’ll never use that thing on me, so put it away and we’ll talk.”

“I wouldn’t have used it on you before today, but now I wouldn’t be so sure. I’ll repeat myself one more time. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t turn you in to the FBI.”

Coleman folded his arms. “I had nothing to do with what happened today.” Michael gave him an incredulous look. “What do you mean you had nothing to do with what happened today?”

“I didn’t kill Erik. I had nothing to do with it.”

“Bullshit, Scott. I was there.

I saw the whole thing.” Michael took several steps to the side to put an armchair between him and Coleman. Michael was no match for Coleman at a close distance. Even with a gun the young Congressman wasn’t entirely confident. Recon Marines were some of the best soldiers in the world, but Navy SEALS were in an entirely different class. Add to that the fact that Michael had been out of the Corps for close to six years and Coleman was obviously still at the top of his game, and Michael was outmatched. “You told me to warn Erik, and I did. He was ready to expose the President’s plan as a sham, and then you had to come wheeling in and screw everything up!”

“Put the gun down, Michael. I had nothing to do with what happened today.”

“Bullshit!” Michael yelled. “You’re just trying to save your ass!

How in the hell could you kill those Secret Service agents?” Michael extended the gun as far as he could. The sights aimed right for the center of Coleman’s forehead. “You killed five good men today and sent another two dozen civilians to the hospital. I should

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put a bullet in your head right now and end this whole thing.” Michael thought he heard a noise, and then without further warning the door to the cabin flew open.

Michael dropped to a knee and wheeled toward the door as Duke started to bark.

Coleman did the same, retrieving his 9mm Glock from underneath his jacket. Seamus

O’Rourke stood in the doorway steadying himself by placing one hand on the frame. He was wearing the same suit he had had on at lunch minus the tie. Seamus looked at the two guns and growled, “Put those damn things away before you two hurt someone.”

Coleman did so on command, but Michael was a little more hesitant.

Seamus admonished him with another look and said in a softer tone, “Michael, put your gun away.” Michael lowered the gun but did not put it away. “You’re supposed to be in the hospital.”

“I am very aware of that, but knowing that this meeting would take place, I decided that my presence was more needed here than in bed.”

Seamus shuffled over and dropped his body into one of the old tattered leather chairs by the fireplace. Rubbing his forehead, he said, “Scott, would you please fix me a glass of

Scotch, and, Michael, for the last time put that damn gun away!” Michael looked down at his grandfather.

“I’m not putting this thing away until he explains what in the hell he was doing today.”

“He wasn’t doing anything today. Someone else killed Erik.”

“What?” asked a disbelieving Michael. “Someone else killed Senator Olson. Scott and his boys had nothing to do with it.” Coleman handed the eldest O’Rourke a glass of

Scotch on the rocks and took a seat on the couch. “How would you know?” asked a confused Michael. Seamus took a big gulp of the drink and sat back in the chair. “I

know, because I helped Scott plan the first four assassinations.” Feeling his legs weaken, Michael decided to sit down while he still had the control. “You what?”

“I helped Scott plan the first four assassinations.” With a look of exasperation

Michael asked, “Why didn’t you say something at the hospital?”

“In front of all the nurses and doctors?” Seamus frowned. “I told you not to do anything until we had a chance to talk.” Seamus shook his head. “I knew with your damn temper you would demand a showdown with Scott. I called your house to check on you, and Liz told me you left to meet someone. When she got all nervous and flustered I knew you had told her.” Seamus shook his head. “Why in the hell did you do that?”

Michael looked at his grandfather for the first time in his life with real anger. “I don’t think you are in any position to criticize me.

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I’m not the one who has been running around staging a revolution.”

Seamus’s eyes narrowed. “It wasn’t an easy decision. I decided to’ keep you out of this for your own good.”

“I can’t believe you’re involved in this. Does Tim know?”

“No.”

Seamus shook his head. “No one knows about it with the exception of Scott, two of his men, myself, you, and now Liz.” Michael glanced over at Coleman. “I understand why he’s doing this. If half of my men were blown out of the sky because Senator

Fitzgerald shot his mouth off, I would have probably killed him, too и . . but Seamus …

for God sakes I can’t believe you’re involved in this.” Seamus set his drink down.

“You said you understand why Scott is involved with this-because he lost eight men.

By the time I was done island-hopping around the Pacific, five hundred and thirty-six

Marines had died under my command.

Five hundred and thirty-six men who climbed down cargo nets into little tin cups and then flung themselves onto some little sand strip all in the name of democracy and freedom. I didn’t watch all those men die so I could see idiots like Koslowski, Fitzgerald, Downs, and Basset send this country in the tank.” Seamus leaned forward. “Those men sit in their little ivory towers and play their petty games of partisan politics while people like your parents and Scott’s brother are killed.

While our so-called leaders are spending billions of dollars on weapons systems the military doesn’t even want, while they throw billions of dollars into the department of education that doesn’t educate a single child, while they waste their time debating whether or not we should have prayer in school, people are dying. They are dying because these idiots don’t have the common sense to keep violent criminals behind bars.

And to make things worse we have the proverbial eight-hundred-pound gorilla sitting in the corner-a five-trillion-dollar national debt.

These clowns ran up the tab, and they’re gonna stick my grandchildren with the bill.

It’s wrong, it’s immoral, and somebody had to put a stop to it.”

Michael looked at his grandfather, but said nothing. While the two O’Rourkes were locked in an icy stare, Coleman looked on. He cleared his throat and said, “You two can sort this out later. Right now we have a much bigger problem on our hands.” With raised eyebrows Coleman asked, “Who has decided to join the fight?”

Nance sat across the coffee table from Arthur as the fire burned brightly, casting a dark shadow of their figures against the far wall of the large study. They were both smiling, holding their warm snifters of cognac gently in their hands. The grandfather

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clock in the far corner started its first of twelve chimes, and Nance swirled the glass under his nose. They were both wearing their standard dark Brooks Brothers suits. Nance took a light sip and let it rest on hispalate before swallowing. “The FBI has no idea,” said

Nance.

“But the President has ordered the CIA and the NSA to get involved in the investigation.” Arthur lowered his glass and raised an eyebrow.

“Really … that surprises me. How did you advise him?”

“I said nothing. Stu is trying to get him to rethink the situation, but he’s having a hard time getting him to calm down. He’s extremely upset about Olson.” Arthur tilted his head back and reflected for a moment. “I don’t think it will affect us. After tomorrow we will be done.” Arthur smelled his cognac but did not drink it. “How is Garret holding up?”

“He’s nervous.” Arthur raised his left eyebrow. “Please, don’t tell me he’s feeling guilty.”

“No, he says he doesn’t care what we do just so long as he isn’t caught.” Arthur smiled and said, “I read him right from the beginning.

He’ll keep his mouth shut.”

“If he doesn’t have a nervous breakdown in the process.”

“Don’t worry, after tomorrow he can relax, and we’ll both have what we want.

Remind Mr. Garret to push the President toward taking a tougher stance against these terrorists. It will help him look better in the polls. The people are yearning for security right now, and after one more assassination they’ll greet a suspension of rights with open arms.”

Arthur gracefully stood and opened the cherry-wood humidor on the table, offering a cigar to Nance. “Let’s step out on the veranda and continue this conversation over a nice cigar, some good cognac, and a majestic view.” The two stood, gently cradling their snifters, and moved from the study into the dark night.

Tuesday Evening, Fairfax, Virginia Congressman Burt Turnquist’s century-old, plantation-style house sat on a beautiful two-and-a-half-acre, wooded lot in an exclusive but low-key neighborhood. A single narrow, winding road cut through the rolling hills with no streetlights to show the way. In late fall, darkness fell on the Eastern seaboard around 5:30 P.M. The moon was finishing a cycle and was showing only a slight sliver of white. The towering old trees and a lack of moonlight gave the neighborhood a deep, dark look.

The Congressman was in his second-floor study, feeling alone and isolated.

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His wife was on a business trip out of town and wouldn’t be back until tomorrow. His closest colleague had been blown to bits the previous afternoon, and he had four complete strangers standing watch over him.

In all his years as a United States Congressman, he had never felt threatened. Even after Downs, Koslowski, and Fitzgerald were killed, he thought he was safe. Turnquist didn’t tell anyone other than his wife, but he could understand why someone would want to kill them. He had thought about it many times since arriving in Washington eighteen years earlier. In short, they were not good men. They had their petty personal agendas and were more concerned with holding on to their positions of power than doing what was right. Year after year they said they were for benevolent change, and then behind the closed doors of their committees they blocked the very reforms they had espoused while running for reelection. Turnquist was not sad to see them gone, but Erik Olson was a different story. Olson was a good friend. They had fought so many battles together, working behind the scenes trying to bring the two parties to a middle ground, Olson in the Senate and Turnquist in the House. Olson had been a source of strength, always helping him steer a safe course through the often dangerous game of politics, prodding him not to give up, advising him on professional as well as personal issues.

Turnquist had warned Olson against helping the President form the new bipartisan coalition in the wake of the assassinations. Turnquist told him that although the deaths of

Koslowski, Fitzgerald, Downs, and Basset were a tragedy, maybe some good could come from them. Maybe they could finally pass the reforms they had worked so hard for. The always principled Olson told Turnquist there was no room for anarchy in a democracy.

Turnquist had reminded his friend of the obvious historical fact that America had come into existence through a bloody revolution.

Turnquist looked down at his journal and struggled to record his thoughts. He was trying to think of what to say at Olson’s funeral.

Writer’s block seized him, and he looked out the window, wishing his wife were home. He couldn’t see the U.S. marshal standing watch in his front yard, but he knew he was there. They had guarded him day and night for over a week, and the Congressman couldn’t decide if they made him feel secure or nervous. Four U.S. marshals were currently on watch at the Turnquist house. They were two hours into a twelve-hour watch that had started at 5 P.M. Three of the four marshals were outside: one by the back door, one by the front porch, and the third sitting in a sedan at the end of the Congressman’s long driveway. The fourth marshal was posted inside the house at the foot of the stairs that led to the second floor. They were more alert than they had been during the previous week’s watch. The fiery deaths of the four Secret Service agents the day before reminded them that they were also targets. The neighborhood that the Congressman lived in hadn’t changed much in the last fifty years.

The lots were woodsy and large. Separating the Congressman’s land from his neighbor’s behind him was a small creek that ran between the two properties. Just on the other side of the creek, about fifty yards from the house, a man peered out from behind a

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tree with a pair of night-vision goggles. The goggles cut through the dark forest and focused in on the marshal standing guard by Turnquist’s back door. The ominous watcher was covered from head to toe in black, and his face was painted with camouflage makeup. Slung across his back was an MP-5 sub gun with a twelve-inch silencer attached to the barrel, and gripped firmly in his hands was a 7mm Magnum sniper’s rifle, also with a silencer affixed to the barrel. He whispered into the microphone hanging in front of his mouth, “Omega, this is Alpha. I’m moving into position, over.” Holding the rifle across his chest and pointed upward, he stepped out from behind the tree and moved laterally until he put another tree between himself and the marshal standing guard by the back door. Alpha moved across the forest floor, gliding between the underbrush with a cautious, catlike manner. When he reached the creek, he put one foot slowly into the water, then followed it with the other, checking his footing before transferring his weight from one foot to the other. Upon reaching the other side he scanned the ground for any fallen branches or twigs and pulled himself up the eroded bank.

Pausing behind a tree, he checked the position of the guard and then his watch.

Methodically, he glided from tree to tree, carefully picking his path. About twenty yards from the edge of Turnquist’s yard, the assassin got down on his belly and started to crawl.

He picked out a pine tree at the edge of the yard and slid under it, the low-slung branches of the tree making his presence impossible to detect. Alpha nestled up against the trunk and checked his watch. It was 7:19 P.M. The assassin pulled his night-vision goggles down around his neck and waited. If the marshals stayed with their routine, they would be rotating posts in about ten minutes. Out in front of the house, the sniper’s partner lay in the ditch across the street from the end of Turnquist’s driveway. Covering his black tactical jumpsuit was a sniper’s blanket. The strange piece of clothing consisted of a mesh netting with strips of camouflage cloth attached to it. It had taken him over forty minutes to crawl into position, slowly squirming through the tall grass and bushes on his stomach, his MP-5 cradled between his chin and elbows. He poked his head up slightly and moved the branch of a small bush in front of him. His face was painted with dark streaks of green and black makeup. Through squinted eyes, he looked at the white sedan sitting at the end of the driveway. Crouching back into the ditch, he pulled the sniper’s blanket off his body, wrapped it into a tight ball, and placed it in his backpack. He checked all of his equipment one last time, and then, just after 7:30 P.M the sedan across the street backed up the driveway to the house. Checking the road quickly, Omega jumped to his feet and darted across the road.

When he reached the other side, he jumped into a clump of bushes not more than ten feet from where the car had been. While taking deep breaths to keep his heart rate low, he said, “Alpha, this is Omega, I’m in position, over.” The car returned less than a minute later with a different driver behind the wheel. Omega squatted on one knee and blinked away a drop of sweat that was forming on his brow. The muzzle of his silencer was extended to the far end of the bush, pointed straight at the head of the man behind the wheel of the car. Only a thin green leaf concealed the lethal black cylinder. The contrast between the dark green and black paint on his face and the whites of his eyes gave him a reptilian appearance. Under the pine tree in the backyard Alpha checked his watch again, and then, reaching forward, he flipped the protective caps off the rifle’s sight. He hugged

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the butt of the rifle close to his cheek and eased his right eye in behind the sight. Moving his hands slightly, he placed the head of the man standing watch at the back door in the middle of the sight’s crosshairs. The plan was to wait another minute or so, giving the marshals ample time to check in and get relaxed. The man by the back door brought his radio up to his mouth and said something.

The sniper was too far away to hear, but he knew what was said. When the guard lowered his radio back to his side, the sniper whispered into his headset, “Omega, this is

Alpha. I’m ready to start the game, over.”

Alpha flipped the safety switch into the off position and brought the sniper’s trigger back one notch. The crosshairs marked a lethal intersection on the temple of the marshal’s head. The killer squeezed the trigger and a spitting noise popped from the end of the thick, black silencer. Without waiting to see the outcome of the shot, the sniper let go of the rifle and rolled to his right, out from under the low branches of the pine tree, leaving the rifle behind. He didn’t need to check to see if his bullet had hit the mark. He knew it had.

Springing up from the ground, he broke into a sprint for the right side of the house, whispering into his headset, “One down, three to go.”

Reaching over his head, he pulled the silenced MP-5 off his back and flipped off the safety. Nearing the front corner of the house, he slowed for a step and then spun around the edge of the porch. Dropping to one knee he swept the gun from left to right, searching for his next target. The movement of the black shape coming around the corner caught the attention of the marshal standing watch at the foot of the porch steps, and he instinctively reached for his gun. Before he could get his hand to his hip, the assassin fired three quick rounds, two hitting the marshal in the face and the third striking him in the neck, the impact of the bullets throwing his head backward and sending the rest of his body with it. With his machine gun aimed at the front door, the killer ran toward the man he had just killed and whispered into his headset, “Two down, two to go.” Upon reaching the marshal, he opened the dead man’s jacket and yanked the radio from his belt.

Ducking under the edge of the porch, he waited and listened to the marshal’s radio. At the end of the driveway the man in the bushes leapt forward and unloaded four quick bursts into the driver’s seat of the sedan. The window broke into thousands of pieces, the bullets slamming into the side of the marshal’s head. Without pause, the hired killer approached the car, shoved the barrel through the shattered window, and pumped a final round into the driver’s head. Turning on the balls of his feet, the killer sprinted up the driveway toward the house. With the adrenaline rushing through his blood he barked into his headset, “Three down, one to go.” Five seconds later, he joined his partner at the foot of the porch, his breathing controlled but heavy. Alpha was listening to the marshal’s radio to see if the man inside the house had been alerted. He pointed and sent Omega to check the windows to the right of the front door, and he went to check the ones on the left. They peered over the railing of the porch and looked through the windows. Omega saw him first, sitting at the foot of the stairs reading a magazine. “I’ve got number four,”

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he whispered into his mike. They met at the stairs of the porch, and Omega pointed at the window. “It’s a clear shot from the first window on the right.”

Alpha nodded and said, I’ll crawl under the window and take up position on the other side. When I give you the signal, pump two rounds into the window, and I’ll take him out.” Omega nodded his confirmation and they started up the steps. Alpha got down on his stomach and crawled to the far side of the window. Switching his gun from his right side to his left, he peeked through the window to make sure his target hadn’t moved.

Stepping away from the window he gave his partner a nod and hugged the butt of the

MP-5 tight against his cheek. Omega stepped back and pointed the muzzle of his silencer toward the middle of the tall window and fired two shots. A split second later, Alpha stepped into the new opening and trained his gun on the startled marshal. Pulling the trigger, Alpha sent three bullets crashing into the center of the man’s head. With robotlike precision the two men slammed fresh clips into their weapons and stepped through the jagged window frame. They trained their guns in opposite directions as they moved to the foot of the stairs. Footsteps sounded from upstairs, and they looked up at the ceiling. A

deep voice called out from the top of the stairs, “Is everything all right down there?”

Without pause, Alpha called back, “Sorry, sir, I dropped a glass. Can I get you anything?”

“No, that’s all right, I’ll come down. I’m getting a little hungry.”

Turnquist started down the staircase, and Alpha pushed his partner back and out of the way. When the Congressman reached the middle landing, he turned and froze, staring at the man dressed in black. Alpha squeezed the trigger and the barrel jumped. A stream of bullets popped from the end of the silencer and slammed into Congressman Turnquist.

The impact of the bullets sent the Congressman reeling backward and into the wall, where he hung for a moment, pinned by the bullets slamming into his chest. The assassin took his finger off the trigger and Turnquist’s body slid to the ground, leaving a bright red streak on the white wall.

AT ABOUT 7:55 P.M A FAIRFAX POLICE SQUAD ROLLED THROUGH

Congressman Turnquist’s neighborhood. It was part of his regular patrol route, but since the recent flurry of assassinations his duties had shifted from spending his nights writing speeding tickets and nailing drunk drivers to checking up on the various Congressman and Senators who lived in his part of the city. He was getting to know most of the marshals who were assigned to protecting Congressman Turnquist and looked forward to stopping by every hour or so to talk with whoever was sitting in the car at the end of the driveway. As he approached the white sedan, his headlights passed over the car. No one was visible in the front seat, so he shined his spotlight on the car.

The police officer put his squad in park and got out, thinking that whoever was on watch must have fallen asleep. He could appreciate how boring their jobs must be. There were nights when after a full thermos of coffee he could barely stay awake, and he was

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on the move. These poor guys sat in one place all night. He strode up to the window and looked in. Just as he’d thought, the marshal was lying across the front seat. The cop brought his flashlight up and turned it on. It took him a second to process what he was seeing. His eyes opened wide as he froze in shock at the sight of the bloody body.

After several seconds he grasped the severity of the situation and ran back to his squad to call the dispatcher. Upon receiving the call from the officer at Turnquist’s house, the dispatcher sent two additional squads and an ambulance to the scene. Her next call was to the Fairfax police chief, who directed her to call the FBI. Within two minutes of the patrolman’s finding the marshal’s body, Skip McMahon was on the phone asking for a chopper. He came into the task force’s main conference room and started telling agents whom to call and what to do.

Then, grabbing Jennings and Wardwell, he headed for the roof of the Hoover

Building. Once in the elevator, he pointed at Wardwell and said, “Get ahold of the

Fairfax Police Department and have them patch you through to the officer at Turnquist’s.

Kathy, call the marshals’ office and make sure they know what’s going on and then. no, call the marshals’ office second. First call the Virginia State Patrol and tell them if they spot any cars with multiple males, twenty-five to forty-five, to pull them over for questioning and approach with extreme caution. Have them pass the word on to all the local police departments.” Both agents pulled their digital phones out and started punching away at the number pads. By the time they reached the roof, the blades on the helicopter were just starting to spin. Wardwell tugged on his boss’s sleeve. “Skip, the cop is waiting for backup. He says he hasn’t heard a thing since he arrived.” Wardwell shouted as the helicopter grew louder and louder. “He wants to know what he should do.”

“Tell him to wait for backup and then proceed with caution …. And tell them not to touch anything.” McMahon had an empty feeling in his stomach that they weren’t going to find any survivors at Turnquist’s house. The rotor wash of the props became intense, blowing their hair and ties in every direction. A man in a bright orange jumpsuit waved them toward the open door of the chopper, and with McMahon leading the way, they hustled up the five steps and onto the helipad. Keeping their heads low, they ran under the spinning blades and climbed into the backseat. The chopper lifted off and arched northward before turning back to a southwesterly course, leaving the bright lights of

Washington behind. As they raced toward Fairfax, Virginia, McMahon turned to

Jennings. “How often were the marshals checking in?”

Jennings shouted into McMahon’s ear, “Every half hour.

They made their seven-thirty checkin and were scheduled to check in again at eight.”

“How many marshals were assigned to the Congressman?”

“Four.”

“What’s the ETA for the Quick Response Team?”

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“When the call went out, most of them were in the lab working on the evidence collected from the bombing yesterday. We’ve got choppers coming in to pick them up on the roof, and their mobile crime lab and heavy equipment should arrive around eight forty-five.” McMahon couldn’t get the vision of a team of commandos assaulting

Turnquist’s house out of his mind. The thought made him think of Irene Kennedy and

General Heaney. He grabbed the digital phone out of his jacket and dialed the direct line to Roach’s office. “Brian, I need you to do me a favor. Get a chopper over to the Pentagon and have it ferry General Heaney and Irene Kennedy out to Turnquist’s.”

“Consider it done. I just activated the Hostage Rescue Team. They’ll be airborne and en route in under five minutes. They should be arriving right behind you. If there’s the slightest sign of these terrorists, I want you to hold tight and wait for them to handle it.”

McMahon doubted the killers were waiting around, but knew Roach had to do things by the book. “Have the HRT stay airborne. if I need them, I’ll call them in.”

“You’re running the show. Have the Fairfax police been in the house?”

“Not yet. I’ll call you as soon as I get there.

We’re only a couple of minutes out.” McMahon hung up, and the next several minutes were punctuated by a nervous silence. The chopper came in at about three hundred feet and circled the neighborhood looking for a place to land. Three police cars with their lights flashing marked the end of Turnquist’s driveway. The chopper pilot knew enough not to land near the crime scene and have his rotor wash send evidence flying.

He flew about fifty yards down from Turnquist’s house and checked the area with his spotlight for wires. He found a spot where the trees weren’t a problem and set the bird down in the middle of the road. The three agents again crouched as they ran away from the chopper. Halfway down the street they were met by a woman with grayish black hair carrying a flashlight. She looked at McMahon and said, “FBI?” Skip stuck out his right hand. “Yes, I’m Special Agent McMahon and these are Special Agents Jennings and

Wardwell.”

“I’m Police Chief Barnes. Follow me, and I’ll show you the way.” All four started down the street. “Have you been in the house, Chief?”

asked McMahon. “No, I just got here.”

“Have any of your officers been in the house?”

“No.” As they walked up to the white sedan, Barnes pointed her flashlight down and illuminated several brassy objects. “Watch your step, we’ve got some shell casings on the ground.”

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She led them to the window of the sedan and shone the light on the dead marshal. The man lay slumped over the middle armrest with shards of glass covering his body. Three bullet holes were clearly visible on the left side of his head. McMahon noted the distance from the shell casings to the car and then looked at the marshal’s hands. They were empty.

“Let’s go look at the house.” The chief told her two officers to stay put and then led

McMahon, Jennings, and Wardwell up the driveway. As they neared the house, another body could be seen on the ground in front of the porch. Barnes shone her flashlight at it and illuminated the dead marshal. When they neared the body, McMahon stuck his arms out and stopped everyone from coming any closer. “Chief, may I borrow your flashlight for a second?” Barnes handed it to him, and Skip stepped closer to the body. Putting the flashlight under his armpit, he put on a pair of gloves and bent over the body. He looked at the bullet holes in the center of the man’s face and then the one in his neck. The marshal’s hands were open and lying away from his body.

Skip looked at his holstered pistol and closed his eyes. Standing back up, he said, “Everyone stay here for a minute. I’ll be right back.”

He started for the porch steps, and Wardwell shouted at him, “Skip, you’re not going in there alone.”

“Yes, I am. Just stay put. The less people we have traipsing around here the better.”

Jennings pulled out her gun and flipped off the safety.

“I’m going in with you!” Without looking back McMahon said, “No, you’re not!”

“What if someone’s still in there?”

“What do you think. the people that did this are waiting around to get caught? Just stay where you are, and I’ll be back in a minute.”

McMahon walked up the steps and tried the front door. It was unlocked.

Swinging the door inward, he saw the next marshal lying on the floor with one leg still up on the chair. Standing over the body, McMahon’s eyes were drawn to the three red dots marking the dead man’s face and then down to his holstered gun. Sighing, he looked up to shake his head and saw the bright red streak on the wall at the top of the stairs. Only a pair of shoes were visible, and McMahon started the slow climb to the first landing. He’d seen the Congressman on TV before but wasn’t quite sure the body he was looking at was Turnquist’s. Unlike the other bodies, this one was riddled with more than a dozen bullets. It has to be him, he thought to himself.

McMahon’s phone rang, startling him slightly. He reached into his jacket and answered it. “Hello.”

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“What did you find?”

It was Director Roach on the line. “Well, I’m standing over what I’m pretty sure is

Congressman Turnquist’s body.”

“Could you be more precise?”

“The man has a half a dozen bullet holes in his face and chest, but it has to be him.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.” McMahon stared down at the body by his feet and waited for Roach to speak.

“Any sign of the people that did it?”

“I’d better tell the President before the media catches on. What else do you need from me?”

“Nothing right now.”

“All right, call me if there are any developments.”

“Will do.” McMahon hung up the phone and looked down at the body, contemplating the precision of the wounds in Turnquist’s head.

Scarlatti and O’Rourke were sitting in the corner booth of a new and yet to be discovered Italian restaurant.

It was located in the basement of a building about two blocks from Dupont Circle.

The booth was a dark-stained wood, and the table was covered with a red-and-white—

checkered tablecloth. The only light in the restaurant was provided by a candle at each table sticking out of an old Chianti bottle. O’Rourke looked around and thought he might enjoy the place under a different set of circumstances. His mostaccioli tasted good and the wine wasn’t bad. Michael had told Liz that Coleman wasn’t responsible for the death of Senator Olson and his four Secret Service agents, but he had neglected to mention

Seamus’s involvement in the first four assassinations. He didn’t quite have the stomach to tell Liz that her future grandfather-to-be was an anarchist or revolutionary or whatever the term would be. Liz was attempting for the third time in twenty-four hours to convince

Michael that he should go to the FBI.

“Michael, I know you and his brother were best friends, but the man killed the

Speaker of the House, two Senators, and the chairman of the House Appropriations

Committee.”

“Keep your voice down.” Liz moved closer. “You have to turn him in.

I don’t care if he had nothing to do with Erik’s death.”

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“For the last time, Liz, I am not going to turn him in.”

“I don’t understand you.” Michael looked at her for a long while and then answered, “I don’t expect you to understand why I feel the way I do.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Liz said defensively. “You have no reason to think those men deserved to die. You have lived a very nice life.” Liz shot him a scowl and

Michael said, “I’m not saying you haven’t worked hard, I’m just saying you’ve had a nice life. Your parents are still alive. Your brother and sister are alive. Nothing has happened to you that would cause you to look at our political leaders with a truly critical eye.”

“So, just because I haven’t lost someone close to me”-Liz folded her arms across her chest-“I’m not fit to judge my political representatives?”

“I didn’t say you weren’t fit to judge.

I’m only trying to say that I don’t think you understand why I feel the way I do.”

“Oh, I understand why you feel the way you do. Despite you not letting me in, I

understand. The death of your parents and Mark is a horrible thing, but I don’t think these bizarre assassinations are going to solve anything. You have got to let go of the past and move on with your life.” Michael placed his anger in check, but even so his voice became a little louder. “Liz, it’s easy to say you understand something when you haven’t experienced it, and it’s even easier to tell someone to get over something when you’ve never been through it. You can say you understand, but you will never really understand until you’ve lived it.”

“So what? Do you want me to lose my parents so I can empathize with you?”

“No, darling.” He reached for her hand. “I never want you to go through that kind of pain. When my parents were killed, my brothers and sister were robbed. They were robbed of dreams never realized and moments that should have been. They never got to look up in the stands during one of their games and see my mom and dad cheering. When the games were over and they came out of the locker room . . и all the other kids were getting hugs and kisses from their moms, but my brothers and sister didn’t have one.

When they came home from school, they didn’t have a mother or father to help them with their homework, and when they ate dinner, there were two empty seats at the table. My parents never got to see the five children they brought into this world grow up.”

Michael stopped and looked away. Liz looked around the candle flame and asked, “What about you?” Michael shrugged his shoulders. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.” She pulled his hand closer. “What dreams did you miss OUT on?”

Michael paused for a moment. “My father was my childhood idol.

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He was everything I ever wanted to be. My mother. she was my best friend. the nicest, most caring person I’ve ever known. Every holiday, every event for the last ten years, has been incomplete, and that’s the way it will be for the rest of my life.” Michael’s eyes glassed over.

“When we get married, it’ll be the happiest day of my life, but I’ll still look down at that first pew, at the two empty seats, and think about how nice it would have been to have them there.” Liz squeezed his hand tight, and Michael forced a smile. “When we have our first child, he or she will only have one set of grandparents, and my parents will have never had the chance to hold their grandchild. “I have been robbed of all of these moments and many more I . . and why?” In a quiet voice he said, “All because some drunk, who had proven time and time again that he was going to keep getting hammered and climb behind that wheel, was allowed to walk free. And why was he allowed to walk the streets?

Because we don’t have enough money to keep him in jail.” Michael poked himself in the chest. “Let me let you in on a little secret. We have the money. We have more than enough of it, it’s just that the egomaniacs who run this country would rather spend it on programs that get them votes.

That’s why I think they deserved to die. It’s more personal to me because their inaction cost the lives of my parents and the life of Mark Coleman, and that is why I’m not going to the FBI. “I don’t expect the average person to agree with me. Most people have enough to worry about just getting through their day-to-day lives, but when you lose someone or something close to you, things take on a more serious tone.” Liz wiped a tear from her cheek and nodded. Michael reached over and brushed her cheek with his napkin.

The hostess approached the table and asked, “Excuse me, sir. Are you Michael

O’Rourke?”

“Yes.”

“You have a phone call at the hostess stand.”

“Who knows we’re here?” asked Liz. “I told Seamus in case he needed to get ahold of me. I’ll be right back.”

Michael got up and followed the waitress across the small restaurant.

Liz watched him talk on the phone and became concerned when she saw him close his eyes and shake his head. After talking for only about ten seconds, Michael handed the phone to the hostess and walked back to Liz.

“Was that Seamus?” she asked. Michael nodded yes and pulled out his money clip.

He threw a hundred-dollar bill on the table and stuck out his hand for Liz. “Come on, let’s go. The networks are reporting that Congressman Turnquist has been assassinated.”

McMahon was sitting upstairs in Turnquist’s study by himself. His eyes were closed and

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he had a pair of thin leather gloves on his hands. His large frame rested comfortably in an old wood rocking chair. The rocking of the chair had a hypnotic effect, and Skip was in the midst of trying to re-create how Turnquist and the marshals had been killed. He envisioned a group of darkly clad men moving into position and then simultaneously killing the three guards outside with silenced weapons. They had to have used silenced weapons. All of the clues indicated that the marshal inside had had no idea that the others had been killed. An agent poked her head through the open door. “Skip, there’re two people downstairs who are asking for you.”

“Who are they?”

“I don’t know. One of them is a Marine.

They said you were expecting them.” McMahon sprang the chair forward and bounded out of it. He’d been excitedly waiting to compare notes with Heaney and

Kennedy. Taking the back staircase, he went downstairs, through the kitchen, and down the hallway onto the front porch. The Quick Response Team had arrived and was setting up their equipment.

Turnquist’s house looked more like a movie set than a crime scene.

Floodlights were everywhere, illuminating the entire yard. The hum of generators droned through the still night air. General Heaney and Irene Kennedy were standing by the steps on the front lawn talking to each other. McMahon approached and said, “Thank you for coming so quickly.

Have you seen any of the bodies yet?”

“We saw the one in the driveway and the other one right over there.”

General Heaney pointed to the dead marshal on the front lawn. “Well, before I start picking your brains, I’d like you to look at all the bodies.” Skip led them up the steps, saying, “All of the marshals were wearing body armor, but it didn’t do much good.” A

photographer was taking photos and several agents were taking notes and talking.

McMahon asked them to step aside for a moment.

Heaney and Kennedy examined the dead marshal lying at the foot of the stairs. They looked at the three bullet holes in the center of the dead man’s face and then at his holstered gun and radio. Kennedy looked into the dining room and pointed at the shattered glass. “The shots came from there, I assume.” McMahon nodded. “We found five shell casings on the porch.” Heaney looked up at the bloodstain on the wall of the landing.

“Is that the Congressman?”

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“Yes.”

“Can I go up there?”

“Sure.” Heaney and Kennedy walked up the stairs while McMahon stayed by the foyer.

Standing over the body, Kennedy said, “Jesus, they really unloaded on him.”

“Yeah, I count at least eight hits. Maybe more,” replied Heaney.

“Any idea why they pumped so many into him?” asked McMahon from the bottom of the stairs. “Two possibilities,” answered Heaney. “The first being they obviously wanted to make sure he was dead, and the second” -Heaney pointed toward the shell casings by

McMahon’s feet—“two or more men fired the shots. Your ballistics people should be able to answer that for us.” Kennedy and Heaney trotted back down the stairs. “Let’s take a look at the one out front again.” McMahon led them out the front door and down the steps. “This guy got two to the face and one to the neck.” McMahon bent over and lifted the man’s jacket. “His gun is still holstered, but his radio is missing. We found it up there on the porch, by the broken window.” Kennedy looked to the broken window and back at the man by her feet. “They took the radio so they could find out if the guy inside knew what was going on.”

Heaney looked toward the side of the house. “Were the shots fired from over there?”

“Yes.” McMahon moved toward the side yard. “We found some shell casings over here. It looks like the perp took three shots. Two hit the man square in the face and the third hit him in the neck.” Heaney and Kennedy looked at the shell casings and judged the distance of the shots. “I assume the last marshal is out back?” asked Irene. “Yes.

Follow me.” The three of them walked around the side of the house and to the backyard. As they approached the body, McMahon said, “Single shot to the head.” Skip bent down and opened the marshal’s jacket.

“His gun is holstered and his radio is on his hip.” Heaney and Kennedy looked at the body for only a second, then turned their attention away from the marshal and the house.

They took the whole landscape in without saying a word, swiveling their heads from side to side, their eyes focusing tightly on the darkness beyond the reach of the floodlights.

Without turning, Heaney asked, “Skip, can you get them to turn these lights off?.”

McMahon said something to one of the agents, and the lights were cut, leaving only the small light over the back door on. The general started walking across the yard for the tree line. McMahon and Kennedy followed several steps behind, and a moment later they disappeared into the woods. Heaney navigated the dark forest with ease, ducking under branches and over fallen limbs that McMahon and Kennedy struggled with.

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Upon reaching the creek they stopped and turned back toward the house.

Kennedy asked, “What do you think, General?” General Heaney looked at the FBI

agents standing by the back door. “They can’t see us, can they?”

“Not standing under that light they can’t,” responded Kennedy. “And we’re not even wearing camouflage gear.

The light only goes to about the end of the yard and then dies out.”

Heaney looked over to the other side of the creek. “I think it was two or more men. It could have been one, but it would have been really difficult. They were in and out in under a minute, and the marshals never knew what hit them, as is evidenced by the fact that none of them drew their guns. One or two men crept through the woods back here and took out the sentry by the back door with a single rifle shot to the head. The marshal by the front door was taken out next with an assault rifle, and then the man in the car at the end of the driveway was killed.”

“I agree,” said Kennedy. “Why that order?” asked McMahon. “When they killed the guy in the car, they had to shoot him through the window.

If they kill him first, the marshal out front hears the window smash and grabs his gun or radio or both. He grabbed neither because he was already dead when the window was shot out. In any case, the men outside died within seconds of each other.” The general shook his head.

“These marshals never stood a chance. The guys who did this were good.

The head shots are as accurate as you can get, and they’re commando style, three quick bursts to the head.”

“How in the hell did they get so close to the guy in the car? He was shot point-blank.”

“There’s plenty of cover around here. With the right camouflage, a commando would have no trouble sneaking to within ten feet of that car.

After they take care of the three guards outside, all they have to worry about is the last marshal inside. The killers grab one of the marshal’s radios to make sure the guard inside wasn’t alerted… since his gun is still in his holster, it’s pretty obvious he wasn’t.

They shoot him from the window, and then Turnquist comes downstairs to find out what the noise was, or maybe he was on his way down when it happened. They’re in and out in under a minute, a minute and a half tops, and all they leave behind is five dead bodies and a couple dozen shell casings. Very clean, very professional. I’m sorry to sound so heartless, but I’m just giving my professional opinion.”

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“No apologies needed, General. That’s what I brought you out here for.

What do you think, Irene?”

“The general is right. Things can always go wrong when you’re running an operation like this, but in relation to some of the missions we’ve run, this thing would have been a cakewalk. These marshals aren’t trained to deal with this kind of a lethal threat. We train our commandos to be able to defeat the best surveillance systems in the world, get by guard dogs, sneak past trigger-happy terrorists armed to the teeth, and then silently kill and get away without being noticed…. The guys who did this are good, and they’re used to facing a lot tougher obstacles than four U.S. marshals armed with radios and pistols.”

McMahon bit down on his upper lip and thought about the remaining Congressman and

Senators, most of whom had less protection than Turnquist. Kennedy’s point was clear: if these guys weren’t caught, he would be spending more of his nights standing over dead bodies. “I need them to slip up… I need a break,” murmured McMahon.

“I wouldn’t count on it,” replied Heaney.

THE DARK GREEN CHEVY TAHOE ROLLED EASTWARD DOWN HIGHWAY

50. It was just past midnight and traffic was light. Michael kept the speed under sixty-five and stayed in the right lane. His left hand loosely gripped the steering wheel while he leaned on the middle armrest. The stereo was tuned to an ALL news station, but he wasn’t listening. The question of who was behind the murders of Turnquist and Olson was pulsing through his mind. The exit for the cabin was approaching, and O’Rourke hit the blinker.

Veering to the right, the truck started up the exit ramp. As he slowed for the stop sign, he rolled down his window and let the cold night air blow on his face. The cool breeze blowing through the window felt refreshing, but as the car accelerated, the wind rushing through the window grew annoying. Michael pressed a button, closing it. Five minutes later the unmarked road to the cabin came up quickly, and Michael braked hard. Gravel spun from under the tires as he banked into the turn and sped down the narrow road.

Pulling in between two cars, he got out, walked around to the back of the truck, and lowered the tailgate. Duke jumped down and started smelling the ground as he ran in circles.

Walking toward the porch, Michael whistled once, and Duke bounded to his side.

Michael patted Duke on the head and told him to stay.

Walking into the cabin, Michael took off his jacket and set it on the back of the couch. Seamus and Scott Coleman were sitting at the kitchen table. The greetings were curt. Michael apologized for being late and grabbed a mug out of the cupboard. While sitting down, he asked, “What in the hell are we going to do to stop this?” As Michael poured some coffee into his cup, he looked up for a response but got none. He took a gulp of coffee and asked, “Do we know any details about what happened to Turnquist?”

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Coleman said, “The Congressman was shot approximately twelve times at close range. Four U.S. marshals were also killed. The word is it was very clean and very professional. Not one of the marshals got a shot off.” Michael closed his eyes and asked, “Do we have any idea who is doing this or why?” Seamus shrugged his shoulders and said, “Erik and Turnquist have been in Washington for a long time. I’m sure they’ve made plenty of enemies over the years. The real question is, who would have the type of contacts to do something like this on such short notice?”

Coleman set his cup of coffee down and said, “I agree. We have to assume that whoever is behind this has the power and the connections to put together an operation like this in under a week. That shortens the list considerably.” Michael thought about the type of people who would have that kind of power and said, “Unfortunately, we don’t have any contacts that run in those circles.”

“I have a few,” said Coleman, “but if I start asking questions, they’ll want to know why I’m so interested.”

Seamus shook his head. “Bad idea. The last thing we want to do right now is draw attention to ourselves.”

“I agree,” said Michael, “but we have to do something.” Seamus pushed his coffee cup forward. “I have someone I can trust who is very connected in the intelligence community, or at least Was.”

“Who?” asked Coleman. “Augie Jackson.”

“Who is Augie Jackson?”

“He’s a very good … very old friend. We were in the Marines together during WW

Two. After the war he went to work for the CIA and went on to become one of the

Agency’s top European analysts. He retired about a year ago. He’s as honest a man as I’ve ever met.”

“How often do you keep in contact with him?”

“We talk at least once a month.

Every summer we fly into Canada for a couple of days of fishing, and I usually go down and see him in the fall for a little duck hunting ….

He lives in Georgia.”

“Do you think you can ask him what he thinks without drawing any attention to our involvement?” asked Michael. Seamus thought about it for a minute and said, “I think so.”

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“All right, see what you can find out. I trust Augie.” Michael took another sip of coffee. “Now, what do we do in the meantime?” Coleman leaned back and crossed his arms. “This is tough. In all of our planning we never predicted that something like this might happen.”

The former SEAL rolled his eyes. “I don’t know. something tells me we should lay low and see what happens. I think there’s still a good chance that the reforms will be implemented.” Michael said, “Absolutely not. You guys got this thing rolling, and you’re going to stop it before anyone else gets killed.”

Seamus stared at Michael. “We don’t have the contacts to go snooping around.”

“The FBI does.”

“So?”

“I think we need to alert them that someone else is involved in this.”

“What will that solve?” asked Seamus.

“If we call them, they’ll have to take us seriously. They will have to look into who would have the motive and the contacts to kill Erik and Congressman Turnquist. If they start asking questions and poking around, maybe it will scare these people away before they kill anyone else.”

Seamus frowned and Coleman said, “I don’t like the idea.” Michael placed his forearms on the table. “You two started this thing, and whether I like it or not, I’ve been dragged into it. I am not going to condemn you for what you’ve done, but I will if you sit around while more good men get killed. We are going to do everything we can to stop this other group from killing again even if it means getting caught.

Am I clear?”

Coleman and Seamus reluctantly nodded yes. The clock on the desk said it was 6:12

A.M Wednesday. McMahon was sitting in his chair with his face resting on a stack of reports. He’d left Turnquist’s house around midnight and came back to the Hoover

Building to brief Roach. Since then he’d been busy assigning new agents to Turnquist’s murder and preparing for an 8 A.M. briefing at the White House. Sometime around 5

A.M he’d laid his head down for a quick nap. He was too tired to get up and go over to the couch. The warning from Irene Kennedy and General Heaney that they could be spending more of their evenings standing over dead bodyguards and politicians had

McMahon a little discouraged. He knew how to pace himself through the ups and downs of an investigation, but this was more frantic than most. The bodies were no longer coming in one at a time, and now that some fellow law enforcement officers had been killed, the investigation had taken on a more personal tone. When it was just Senators and

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Congressman getting killed, he looked at the case with more detachment. McMahon was immersed in a vivid dream when a noise startled him. It took a moment for him to realize he was in his office and it was his phone, not his alarm clock, that was making the irritating noise.

His head snapped up, and he lurched for the receiver. “Hello.”

Michael was sitting in the back of the BMW as Coleman navigated the narrow residential streets of Adams Morgan. Next to O’Rourke on the backseat was a mobile scramble phone that Coleman had purchased through a third party in Taiwan three months earlier. The secure phone was mounted in a leather briefcase. Attached to the receiver was a voice modulator that converted Michael’s voice into generic electronic tones.

The phone was touted as being trace-proof and could be used stationary, but neither

O’Rourke nor Coleman was willing to trust it completely, so they stayed mobile when using it. “Special Agent McMahon?” asked Michael. McMahon went rigid upon hearing the electronic voice. Before responding, he pressed a button next to the phone starting a trace on the incoming call. Hesitatingly he said, “Yes, this is he.”

“I will assume you are recording and tracing this call, so I’ll be brief. The people that killed Senator Fitzgerald, Congressman Koslowski, Senator Downs, and Congressman

Basset did not kill Senator Olson, Congressman Turnquist, and their bodyguards.” There were several seconds of silence on the line while McMahon tried to grasp what he had just heard. “I’m not sure I follow you.”

“There is a second group of killers. A group that killed Olson, Turnquist, and their bodyguards.”

“Why should I believe you?”

Michael had anticipated McMahon’s pessimism and had asked Coleman for some bits of information that would give the call credence. “We let Burmiester live.” McMahon thought about the old man who lived across the street from Congressman Koslowski. The man they had found drugged and tied up the morning of the first three assassinations. “A

lot of people know about Burmiester. That doesn’t prove anything.” McMahon was trying to stall and give the computers time to trace the call.

“Mr. McMahon, we do not kill Secret Service agents and U.S. Marshals.

As we stated in the last message we left for you, we have a deep respect for members of the law enforcement community. Our fight is with the politicians, not you.”

“That’s where you’re wrong-” Michael cut him off. “Ask yourself one question. If we were willing to kill four Secret Service agents to get at Olson and four U.S. marshals to get at Turnquist, why wouldn’t we have blown the President out of the sky last Friday?”

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O’Rourke let the question hang in the air and then said, “The answer is that we didn’t kill

Olson and Turnquist. Someone else did.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because we don’t want to see innocent people die.”

“And Basset and the others were guilty?” O’Rourke looked at his watch.

“Mr. McMahon, I don’t have time to be drawn into a debate with you right now, so listen carefully. I don’t know who would want to kill Turnquist and Olson or why, and

I’m really not in a position to find out. All I know is that they’ve killed eight Federal law enforcement officers, and they’ll probably kill more if you don’t stop them.”

“And what about you?

Are you done killing?”

“Yes.” McMahon started to speak, but the line went dead.

ROACH’S LIMO PULLED UP IN FRONT OF THE WEST EXECUTIVE

ENTRANCE of the White House, and the director and McMahon rushed to the door.

They were almost twenty minutes late. Jack Lortch was waiting for them and ushered them quickly past the security checkpoint and to the Situation Room. The President was speaking and stopped when they entered. Everyone turned and looked at Roach and

McMahon as they took their seats. “I apologize for being late, Mr. President,” said

Roach.

“There was a last-minute development we had to take care of.”

President Stevens ignored the explanation and looked back at Mike Nance. The attendees were CIA director Stansfield, Secret Service director Tracy, Secretary of

Defense Elliot, Joint Chief general Flood, and Stu Garret.

Nance said from the far end of the table, “As you were saying, Mr. President.”

“Obviously, the FBI and the Secret Service can’t guarantee the safety of our

Congressman and Senators. Over the last two days my phone has been ringing off the hook. Every politician in this town is demanding that they be given more protection, and

I don’t blame them.

It’s bad enough that we can’t catch these terrorists, but it’s inexcusable that we can’t stop them from killing.” Stevens shot Roach a look of disgust. “After some discussion with General Flood and Secretary Elliot, I have decided to declare martial law for the

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immediate area surrounding the Capitol, the Senate and House office buildings, and the

White House. Elements of the First Marine Expeditionary Force and the 101st Airborne

Rangers will be used to secure the perimeter. These units will be in full combat dress and will carry live ammunition. General Flood has informed me that he will have this phase of the operation in place by sundown tonight.

“In addition to these extra measures I am going to extend to every Congressman and

Senator the option to move themselves and their families to Fort Meade for the duration of this crisis. The National Airlift Command is flying in one hundred forty-two luxury trailers that our generals use when they are on maneuvers in the field. Fort Meade also has over two hundred housing units that are not being used, and if that’s not enough, we have over a thousand modern tents equipped with generators, plumbing, and heating. The general’s people are working out the details right now and estimate that they will have everything ready to go within forty-eight hours.

“In the meantime, the general is pulling special security units from the Army, Navy, Air Force, and Marines to handle protection for the ranking members of the House and the Senate. Most of these units specialize in base security. I am told they are very well armed and trained in counter commando tactics.

I have talked to the leaders of both parties, and they have agreed to reconvene for a legislative session on Monday morning, after we have these new security measures in place. Until then all official business will be suspended.” The President looked to Roach and said, “I am not happy about having to take these drastic measures, but the inability of our Federal law enforcement agencies to stem the tide of violence has left me with no alternative.” Stu Garret had the slightest hint of a smile on his lips as he watched Stevens put the screws to Roach. The President was repeating almost verbatim what Garret had told him to say an hour earlier. McMahon, on the other hand, found nothing humorous about the situation. He didn’t enjoy watching his boss take the heat for something that wasn’t his fault. He looked away from the President to hide his disgust while recalling that Roach had originally suggested that the military be brought in to help secure the area around the Capitol, and that the President and Garret had said no. Roach shrugged off the

President’s comments and moved the discussion forward. “Mr. President, we’ve had a very unusual development concerning the investigation. Special Agent McMahon received another phone call from the terrorists this morning.” Roach looked at McMahon.

“Skip.”

McMahon cleared his throat. “This morning at about six-fifteen I received a very interesting phone call.” McMahon pulled a cassette tape out of his pocket and handed it to Jack Lortch. “Jack, would you please put this in the tape player for me?” Passing sheets of paper to his right and left, McMahon said, “These are transcripts of the conversation. I think it would be best if I let you hear the tape and then discuss it afterwards.” Lortch walked over to the podium at the end of the table and inserted the tape. Eight small, black speakers were mounted on the walls around the room. Some static noise hissed and crackled from them, and then the sterile computer voice filled the room. “Special Agent McMahon?” After a pause, McMahon’s tired voice came over the

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tape. “Yes, this is he.” CIA director Stansfield had acquired a lot of habits from his days as a spy. One of them was the ability to study people’s mannerisms while listening to them speak.

This occupational habit had become so ingrained in Stansfield that without consciously thinking about it, he leaned back in his chair and held the manuscript in front of him. His eyes peered over the top of the white sheet and worked their way around the table, looking for someone to focus in on. The computerized voice continued, “I will assume you are recording and tracing this call, so I’ll be brief. The people that killed

Senator Fitzgerald, Congressman Koslowski, Senator Downs, and Congressman Basset did not kill Senator Olson, Congressman Turnquist, and their bodyguards.” A quick head turn caught Stansfield’s eye. He looked at Garret’s wide eyes and followed them across the table to Mike Nance.

Stansfield went back to Garret and examined his facial features. The chief of staff’s jaw was tense and his nostrils were slightly flared.

After a full pause, McMahon’s voice responded, “I’m not sure I follow you.”

“There is a second group of killers. A group that killed Olson, Turnquist, and their bodyguards.” Stansfield saw it again. Garret shot Nance another look. “Why should I

believe you?”

“We let Burmiester live.” McMahon interjected while there was a pause in the tape, “For those of you who don’t remember, Burmiester is the retired banker who lives across the street from Congressman Koslowski.”

McMahon’s taped voice continued, “A lot of people know about Burmiester.

That doesn’t prove anything.”

“Mr. McMahon, we do not kill Secret Service agents and U.S. marshals.

As we stated in the last message we left for you, we have a deep respect for members of the law enforcement community. Our fight is with the politicians, not you.”

“That’s where you’re wrong-” The sterile voice cut McMahon off. “Ask yourself one question. If we were willing to kill four Secret Service agents to get at Olson and four

U.S. marshals to get at Turnquist, why wouldn’t we have blown the President out of the sky last Friday?”

There was a pause in the tape and Stansfield thought of looking to see the President’s reaction but was too absorbed in watching Garret. “The answer is that we didn’t kill

Olson and Turnquist. Someone else did.”

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Stansfield saw sweat forming on Garret’s upper lip and followed his eyes again to

Mike Nance. When Stansfield reached Nance, the national security adviser was staring back at him. Stansfield casually lowered his eyes as if he were reading the transcript.

When the tape ended, the President sat dumbfounded, staring at the transcript in his hands.

“This is unbelievable.” Stevens looked up. “Special Agent McMahon, is this for real?” McMahon shrugged his shoulders. “Without having had the time to really analyze it, I would have to say there’s a good chance …. After the Marine One incident last Friday they sent us a tape stating that the only reason they didn’t blow you out of the sky was because they didn’t want to kill any Marines or Secret Service agents. Now three days later, they blow up Senator Olson’s limousine with four Secret Service agents in it, and then last night they kill Congressman Turnquist and four U.S. marshals. The logic is inconsistent. No offense, sir, but if I was in their shoes, I would have shot Marine One down. You are a far more important target.”

“That’s assuming they had the hardware to do so,” interjected a calm and composed

Mike Nance from the far end of the table. “Stinger missiles are very difficult to come by.

I don’t think we can be certain that they had the ability to shoot Marine One down.”

Director Stansfield stared impassively at Nance and wondered why he’d just lied.

Seven months earlier Nance had personally briefed him that the Chinese were pushing their own version of the Stinger on the open market.

McMahon continued, “Well, these last two murders are markedly different. Until last night they had been very patient. killing and then waiting to see if their demands were met. I can see where they would have wanted to kill Olson.

After all, he helped form the coalition, but it makes no sense that they would rush out and kill Turnquist without giving you a chance to respond to their demands.”

“Where does it say any of this has to make sense?” snapped Garret.

McMahon ignored the comment. “I think that we have no choice but to look into the possibility that there may be another group.”

“Unbelievable,” scoffed Garret. “Has it occurred to you that maybe they sent you this message to throw you off?.”

“Yes, it has.”

“Well, Mr. McMahon, I think you’re having a hard enough time running this investigation without letting these terrorists confuse you with one simple phone call. It’s no wonder you haven’t made any progress when you’re willing to run off on these wild-goose chases.” McMahon smiled broadly and bobbed his head up and down at Garret.

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“Do you find this humorous, Mr. McMahon?” asked Garret. “No.” McMahon continued to grin.

“Then what in the hell are you smiling about?”

“If I didn’t smile at your childish behavior, I wouldn’t be able to keep myself from jumping over this table and knocking your head off.”

The smile faded from McMahon’s face and he turned to Stevens. “As I was saying, Mr. President, we have no choice but to take this seriously.” Stu Garret’s face was turning a new shade of red, and he was about to open his mouth and explode when from the far end of the table Mike Nance drew the attention of everyone away from Garret and to himself. “I think Special Agent McMahon is correct. We can’t just ignore this phone call, but I do think there are some guidelines we need to set up.” Nance continued to talk in his smooth, even voice, content that he had diverted the focus of the group away from the volatile Garret.

Michael arrived at his office at 8 A.M. and left instructions with Susan that he didn’t want to be disturbed unless it was Seamus or Liz.

With less than three hours of sleep since Monday, he collapsed on the sofa. As he drifted away, he thought of the innocent men and their families and, for the hundredth time in the last two days, asked himself who could be behind the killings. He didn’t know how long he’d been asleep when he heard Susan’s voice calling for him over the intercom. Throwing off the blanket, he jumped off the couch and grabbed the phone.

“Yes.”

“Seamus, line one.”

There was a click and then Michael heard his grandfather’s voice.

“Michael?” The Congressman shook his left arm, which had fallen asleep.

“Yeah.”

“How are you?”

“Fine.”

“What’s your schedule look like for the rest of the day?”

Michael rubbed his eyes. “Well, we’re not in session until Monday, so I’m pretty open.”

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“Good. I thought it might be nice for you and me to get away for a while and spend some relaxing time up in the clouds.” Michael wondered what Seamus had in mind. It was obvious that he couldn’t talk about it over the phone. “Ah… that sounds great.

What time and where do you want to meet?”

“How about noon at your house?” Michael looked at his watch and was surprised to see that it was 11:07 A.M. “Yeah, noon will be fine. I’ll see you then.” Michael hung up the phone and again tried to shake the tingling feeling out of his arm.

He calculated that he’d gotten about three hours of sleep, more than enough to get him through the day. When the meeting in the Situation Room was over, Mike Nance went to his office and waited exactly one hour. Then, pressing the intercom button on his phone, he asked his secretary if she could track Stu Garret down and have him come to his office. Less than a minute later, Garret came puffing through the door and closed it behind him. His entire body was rigid. He paced back and forth in front of Nance’s desk.

“We’ve got to do something about that fucking McMahon. I knew he was going to be trouble.”

“Stu, sit down.”

Garret continued to pace. “We have got to do something. I mean we can’t-” Mike

Nance rose out of his leather chair and pointed toward an armchair by the side of his desk. “Stu, sit down and shut up!” The uncharacteristic remark by the always composed

Nance got Garret’s attention, and he sat. “The only thing you are going to do, Stu, is relax and keep your mouth shut. The FBI can dig all they want and they’ll find nothing. That is, unless you give them a reason to look in our direction.” Nance tapped his clenched fist against his forehead and looked away for a brief moment. “Did you pay attention to what was going on in that meeting this morning?” Garret gave Nance a puzzled look.

“Stansfield watched your every gesture while that tape was being played.” Nance hated dealing with amateurs and was using all of his energy to suppress the contempt he felt toward Garret at this moment.

“He saw you sweating, and he saw you look at me with that stupid, panicked expression on your face. Stu, you have to get a grip on yourself. You have to learn to control your emotions, or you are going to screw this whole thing up.”

McMahon left the White House and returned to his office briefly before leaving for the Pentagon. Kennedy and General Heaney were unaware of the most recent phone call from the assassins. The President agreed that they had to take the call seriously and investigate, but at the same time he knew if the public found out, the conspiracy theorists would go nuts. They would start pointing fingers at every institution of power, and the media would fan the flames. The President directed McMahon to assign a small contingent of agents to look into who might have wanted to kill Turnquist and Olson.

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The agents were not to be told of the tape and the possibility that another group was responsible for the last two assassinations. At the urging of Mike Nance, the President asked for a list of everyone who knew about the most recent call and wanted them informed that they were not to discuss the tape with anyone. McMahon was not happy with the ludicrous and senseless restriction. It drove him nuts watching the huge amounts of energy and time that was wasted on worrying about the media and public opinion. He couldn’t run an investigation if his people didn’t know what was going on. After he’d gotten away with putting Garret in his place, he’d decided not to press his luck. The

President was obviously not in the mood to be challenged, so he shut his mouth with the hope that Roach could get the President to loosen up later. All the way to the Pentagon, McMahon was trying to figure out how he could leave Kennedy and General Heaney out of the loop. He couldn’t. He needed their minds. They gave him insight into an area that he knew little about, and this morning’s phone call was a valuable piece of the puzzle.

Skip entered the conference room just before noon and was slightly surprised. The last time he’d seen the room it was neat and orderly.

Now it had stacks of folders piled everywhere, and the blackboard was covered with writing. Kennedy looked tired and worn, but the general was clean shaven and looking the perfect Marine. “You two look like you got some work done.”

“We’ve been up all night pounding through these files.”

Kennedy stretched her hands over her head and yawned. McMahon nodded.

“Fill me in on what you’ve done.” Kennedy took off her glasses and stood.

“Down at the far end of the table are all of the Delta Force files, in the middle are the

Green Berets, and down here are the two Navy SEAL files. We took the description of the black assassin that killed Downs and tried to match it with the former black commandos. First, we separated them by height and skin color. If they were too short or their skin color was too light, we put them in a pile marked ‘not probable.”

From there, we sorted them by current address, our rationale being that the commandos would need to live in the D.C. metro area to have an alibi. If we go talk to one of these guys who lives out in L.A. and find out that they’ve been out of town for the last two weeks, it’s going to look a little fishy. The commandos that fit the description of the assassin, but don’t live in the D.C. area, are in piles marked ‘possible’.” And the commandos who fit the description of the assassin and live in town are in the piles marked ‘probable.”” McMahon nodded.

“Sounds good. What’s the next step?”

“Well, we’re all in agreement that to conduct an operation of this nature you would need a minimum of four commandos, and they would have to know each other pretty well. As the general said earlier, you don’t do something like this unless you trust the

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people on your team. That led us to the conclusion that it is highly likely these commandos served together when they were in the military.

The odds are this group is composed of all former Delta Force commandos, Green

Berets, or SEALS, not a mix of the three. Knowing that, we are going through the personnel files for every former commando and looking for men that served in the same units with the black commandos that are in the probable stacks.”

“When will we have the list?”

“The general is running a sort on their computer. We should have a list by… When do you think it’ll be done, General?”

“Hopefully sometime around seventeen hundred.”

“Then what’s the plan?” asked McMahon. “That’s what you and I need to talk about.

You have to decide if you want to go knocking on doors and question these guys personally, or if you want to put them under surveillance and watch them.”

“How many suspects are we talking about?”

“There are fourteen former black commandos who live in the metro area and fit the description of the assassin that killed Downs.” McMahon did the math. “That’s going to take a lot of agents to run twenty-four-hour surveillance on fourteen people. What about the other commandos that are going to come up on the general’s list?”

“What I think we should do is have you get solid surveillance set up on the fourteen former black commandos and let the Agency handle the other names that come up on the general’s list. When all of your agents are in place, and all of my surveillance people are in place, then you can start beating the bush.” McMahon nodded. “And then we sit back and watch who talks to whom.”

“Exactly.”

“Do you have enough people to run that many surveillance teams?” asked McMahon.

“We have to be talking about at least fifty suspects.”

“We have enough assets,” Kennedy said with a slight smirk on her face.

“Seriously?”

“We conduct our surveillance a little differently than you do.”

McMahon shook his head and said, “I don’t even want to know what you’re going to do.” He looked to General Heaney. “I’m going to need the complete dossiers of the

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fourteen guys on the probable list. I would also like the names of their commanding officers while they were in the service.”

Turning back to Kennedy, McMahon asked, “How long will it take you to get your people in place?”

“Depending on how many names come up, we should have everything ready to go by

Friday morning.”

“I’ll call Brian and get everything rolling on my end, and, Irene, you do …”

McMahon waved his hand in the air. “I don’t want to know what you’re doing. Just please be careful and don’t end up on the front page of the Post.”

THE SMALL CESSNA FLEW ALONG THE SOUTHEAST RIDGE OF THE

APPALACHIAN Mountain Range. Autumn colors painted the mountains beneath.

Dotted among the rich reds, oranges, and yellows, tall Georgia pines jutted into the sky. Not a cloud was in sight, and the sun added an extra intensity to the full mix of colors below. They passed over a mountaintop, and a town farther up the valley came into sight. Seamus pointed and said, “There she is.” Brasstown, Georgia, was a small town about one and a half hours north of Atlanta that was nestled in a valley at the southern end of the Appalachians. From the far end of the valley they could barely make out two church steeples and a water tower that broke above the trees. As they neared, other buildings and streets became visible. “The airstrip is out on the southern end of town,” said Seamus, who banked the plane farther to the southeast and came in for a sweeping pass. The airstrip was cut right out of the tree line. Passing over it, Seamus took note of the direction the bright orange wind sock was pointing and came back around for a landing. He lined up his approach with a slight allowance for the crosswind and came in low above the trees. When he reached the clearing, he throttled back and let the plane float down onto the grass strip. She bounced once and then settled in, rolling to the end of the runway. An old, rusty fuel pump was the only structure in sight, and next to it was a Dodge pickup. Leaning against the hood was a man in boots, jeans, a red-and-black flannel shirt, and green John Deere hat.

Seamus cut the engine and shut everything down. He and Michael got out of the plane, and the man by the pickup approached. Seamus met him halfway and they embraced, slapping each other on the back. Seamus turned and said, “Michael, you remember Augie, don’t you?” Michael stuck out his hand.

“It’s been a while. Good to see you again, sir.”

“Good to see you, Michael.” Jackson stared at him for a moment and said, “God, you look just like your grandfather.” Michael smiled and Augie asked, “Things have been pretty hectic in Washington lately, haven’t they?”

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“Yes.”

Augie gestured toward the rear of the truck. “Let’s go sit down. My old legs don’t work so well anymore.” Augie led them to the back of the truck, where he lowered the tailgate. He and Seamus sat and Michael stood with his arms folded across his chest.

Augie pulled out a pipe and a bag of tobacco. He filled the bowl and offered the bag to

Seamus.

While Augie packed his pipe, he said, “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking since I got your call last night, Seamus. In fact, I’ve been, doing a lot of thinking since this whole thing started. Kind of a professional curiosity I guess you’d call it.” He put the packing tool back in his pocket and pulled out a lighter. “Michael, did your grandfather tell you what I used to do for the CIA?”

“A little.” Augie lit the lighter and held the flame over the bowl, sucking on the pipe until the packed tobacco caught fire. Exhaling the smoke, he moved the pipe to the corner of his mouth and said, “Well, I’ll give you the short version. After the war, I stayed in the

Corps and went to work for Naval Intelligence back in Washington. Several years later, when the CIA was formed, I was hired and sent to work at our Paris embassy. I spent my first fifteen years in Europe and then was brought back to Langley, where I became kind of a roving analyst on Russo-European intelligence issues. During my time at Langley, I

was also part of a special group that planned covert operations.” Jackson took several deep puffs. “I think I might have some information that could help you, but before I go any further, I’d like to ask a few questions.” Michael nodded his head and said, “Shoot.”

“Where did you hear that there is a second group responsible for the murders of Olson and Turnquist?”

“I really can’t say.”

“You mean you won’t.” Jackson exhaled a puff of smoke and kept his eyes fixed on

Michael’s. “Why are you talking to me and not the FBI?”

“The FBI has this information. I’d like to do a little searching on my own.” Augie thought about the answer over several puffs of his pipe and then asked, “Why?”

“Erik Olson was a good friend.”

“That’s the only reason?” Jackson stared into Michael’s eyes and waited for an answer. Michael looked to Seamus for a moment and then back at Augie. “Yes.”

“You’re a bad liar, Michael. Just like your grandfather.” Augie looked at Seamus and smiled.

Then, looking down at the ground, he said, “I suppose neither of you have any idea who is behind the first four assassinations?” Michael shook his head. In a cynical tone

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Augie said, “I didn’t think you would.” Augie bobbed his chin up and down. “Well, I

have a hunch who might have been involved, but before we get to that, I have some information that I think you will find interesting. I’m going to tell you a story about something I took part in while I was at the Agency, but first I have to give you a little background information. “In the late fifties and early sixties I was the CIA’s station chief at our Paris embassy. Tensions between us and the Soviet Union were running hot. There was a very real threat that the Soviets might wage a conventional war and try to take

Western Europe. All along the Iron Curtain, NATO forces were outgunned almost five to one in tanks, artillery, and troop strength. Our military planners thought the best way to deter the Soviet Union from any aggressive action was to deploy tactical nuclear weapons in Western Europe. Our NATO allies agreed, and the missiles were moved into place.

The message to the Soviet Union was simple. If you initiate any military action towards

Western Europe, we will retaliate with a tactical nuclear strike. This policy worked perfectly until the early sixties, when France started to get goofy on us. “There was a group of politicians in the French parliament who wanted all U.S. nuclear missiles removed from French soil. There were even a few who wanted all U.S. military personnel removed. These ingrates started to attract quite a following, holding protests outside the gates of our military bases we had over there and making more and more speeches demanding that we leave. The writing on the wall was clear. France had a history of being one of our most fickle allies—never mind that fifteen years earlier we had kicked the Nazis out of their country for them. From the President down, our political leadership was furious that France could be so ungrateful.

We were given the go-ahead by Langley to initiate clandestine action against the leaders of this anti-U.S, movement. Our orders were to find a way to make them change their minds. Over a period of about six months we managed to bribe several of them and blackmail a few more.

We were not successful, however, with the core leaders of the movement.

After exhausting all efforts, Langley sent a man to Paris who was a specialist of sorts.

But, before I get to that, are you familiar with the French Algerian conflict?”

“A little,” answered Michael. Augie took several puffs on his pipe.

“Well, back in the late fifties the French military was immersed in a war with revolutionary Algerian forces who wanted independence from France. This war waged on for several years, and although they suffered some high casualties early on, the French military eventually put down the uprising. Throughout the war there were certain fringe members of the French parliament who were demanding Algeria be granted independence.” Augie paused and raised his eyebrows.

“These politicians also happened to be the same ones protesting against U.S. nuclear weapons on French soil. “Well, the French military had done their job. They had suffered significant casualties and fought a bloody war with the rebels. With the conflict all but over and the rebels on the run, the French parliament and President de Gaulle did

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something that shocked everyone. They granted Algeria independence and ordered the

French military out. At the time there were over a quarter of a million French nationals living in Algeria. “This decision completely alienated the French military from the country’s political leadership. And it so infuriated a group of commanders who had fought in Algeria that they deserted and formed a paramilitary group called the OAS.”

Augie paused to see if Michael was with him and then continued. “The OAS went underground in Algeria and France and initiated a violent commando war with the French political leadership and the leaders of the Algerian liberation movement. They started blowing up bombs and assassinating politicians left and right. They even made several attempts on President de Gaulle.

“Just after the first OAS attempt on de Gaulle’s life, this specialist arrived from

Washington. I was instructed to give him whatever assistance he needed. I met him at a safe house that we had in Paris and found out he was a covert-operations expert. This man had a brilliant but simple plan. The two most vocal critics of our nuclear weapons being on French soil were also two of the most vocal proponents of Algerian independence. This covert-operations specialist’s plan was to assassinate them and make it look like it was the work of the OAS. It took us about two months to plan the whole thing, and then we got the green light from Washington.”

“Did it work?” Augie nodded his head and puffed on his pipe. Michael asked, “The

CIA assassinated two elected officials in an allied country?”

“Yes. Michael, you have to understand things were a lot different back then. The stakes were considerably higher than they are today, and the spying business was a far deadlier game.” Michael shrugged his shoulders. “I’m not into revisionism, and I’m not in much of a position to judge you.” Augie rubbed the end of his pipe with his thumb. “Do you understand why I told you that story?”

“I think so.”

“What would your reaction be if I told you I think I know who might be behind the assassinations of Olson and Turnquist?” Michael shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I would be very interested to hear what you have to say.”

“The man that came up with the idea to use the OAS as a cover went on to head the

Black Operations Directorate of the CIA from the mid-sixties until just several years ago.

Have you ever heard of Arthur Higgins?” Michael frowned and said, “Yes… I thought he was retired.”

“Forced out would be a more precise term.”

“Why?”

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“There are a lot of reasons, but the short version is that he and Director Stansfield had some issues.” Michael looked at Seamus and then back at Augie. “Where are you going with this?”

“I think Arthur is behind the assassinations of Turnquist and Olson.”

“I hope you’re basing this on more than the story you just told me.”

“Oh, I am. There’s a lot more.” Michael’s chin dropped down into his chest, and he pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. Without looking up, he asked, “What’s the motive for Higgins to kill Turnquist and Erik?”

“I’m not sure about Turnquist, but Arthur had a personal score to settle with Olson.”

“What score?” Michael looked up. “Arthur was next in line for the top job at the CIA

when Director Carlyle stepped down four years ago.

Everybody thought the job was Arthur’s, including me. That was until your old boss stepped in.”

“Erik?”

“Yep. You must remember, when all of this happened, you were on Olson’s staff.”

“Of course I do, but I don’t remember Higgins’s name being mentioned.

All I remember is the President nominating Stansfield and that he was confirmed with bipartisan support.” Augie grinned. “Stansfield was the only person nominated because your boss, Chairman Olson, went to the President and told him if Arthur’s name was sent to the Intelligence Committee, he would do everything in his power to block the nomination.

Olson told the President if the nomination was lucky enough to get out of his committee and make it to the Senate floor for a vote, he would resign his chairmanship in protest.” Augie pointed the end of his pipe at Michael.

“Rather than risk the embarrassment, the President nominated Stansfield, and Arthur missed his chance at the one job he had worked his entire life to get.” Michael frowned.

“You think he would kill Erik over that?”

“You’ve never met Arthur, have you?”

“No.”

“He’s the most evil son of a bitch I’ve ever known.” Michael skeptically shook his head. “I’m having a hard time buying this.”

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“Michael, it runs much deeper than what I’ve told you. For over thirty years Arthur ran the most secretive part of the Agency. He answered to no one. Directors came and went and not one of them dared cross him.

Arthur always hid behind internal-secrecy rules and a need-to-know basis. In the early years he received a blank check for his operations, but then, when the House and the Senate implemented oversight committees, he was left with the option of telling them what he was doing or having his funding cut. Arthur was not involved in the type of things he could talk about in public. He didn’t even tell people in the Agency what he was up to, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to walk into a committee room and explain himself to a roomful of men who were about as good at keeping secrets as a gossip columnist.

Over the years his funding shrank significantly, but his operating budget continued to grow. He started to finance his operations through various illegal endeavors.”

“Why didn’t someone reel him in?” asked Seamus.

“Senator Olson did.”

“I can’t believe I never heard any of this from Erik.”

“Your boss was a very reasonable man, and he understood the value of the Agency.

He was a realist, and he knew that going after Arthur through hearings or an investigation would do more harm than good.

Instead, he worked behind the scenes to try and keep him as honest as possible.”

Augie tapped the bowl of his pipe on the tailgate and the spent tobacco fell to the ground in clumps. “Let’s not lose sight of something here. The other reason Arthur was tolerated was that he served a very valuable purpose. When things got ugly, he was called in to clean up. He handled all of the stuff that no one else wanted to.

He took care of the Agency’s dirty work.” Michael thought about it for a minute. “Can you be sure he’s responsible for this?”

“I can’t be one hundred percent sure.” Augie dumped some more tobacco into the bowl of the pipe and packed it down. “There are a lot of other reasons why I think Arthur killed Senator Olson and Congressman Turnquist …. I have my reasons for not wanting to discuss them, just like you have yours for not wanting to discuss your source.”

“Why don’t you go to the FBI with this?”

Augie lit his pipe and frowned. “The FBI can’t do anything.”

“Why not? All we have to do is tell them what you just said, and they’ll initiate an investigation.”

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Augie smiled. “And they’ll find nothing, and I’ll end up with a bullet in the back of my head. Michael, I don’t think you understand who we are talking about. Arthur is a very brilliant and ruthless person.

He’s assassinated people all over the world, and he hasn’t come close to getting caught. Not once Besides, I can’t tell the FBI anything.

I’m bound by the national secrecy act.”

“Well, I can.”

“Michael, I don’t think you understand. If you go to the FBI, Arthur will find out. He has sources everywhere. After he finds out it was you who went to the FBI, he will very subtly threaten your life or the life of someone close to you. Or maybe he’ll just have you killed. He is not a man to be toyed with.”

“Why are you telling me all of this if you don’t think I should do anything?”

“I expect you to do something, but before I get to that, I have to ask you some questions.” Augie sucked on his pipe for a while. “When Downs, Fitzgerald, Koslowski, and Basset were killed, I wasn’t real torn up. I hated everything they stood for, and I was glad to see them gone. I’ve thought for a long time that the crusty old windbags in

Washington needed to be shaken up.” Augie paused, contemplating how to phrase his next statement. “I have a good idea who was behind the first four assassinations.” Augie shifted his weight and put one foot on the ground. He looked at Seamus and said, “I could ask a more direct question, but I don’t want to be lied to, so I’ll skirt the issue slightly. If you really had to … could you get in touch with someone who is involved in the original assassinations?” After a moment of silence Seamus said, “Yes.” Michael’s face remained passive.

“Good.”

Augie stood and hobbled to the cab of the truck. “I’ve got something I’d like you to pass on to them for me.” He reached behind the seat, pulled out a large legal file, and walked back to the tailgate.

Sitting down with an owly look in his eye, he said, “I think I have everything figured out, but it’s probably better to leave certain things unsaid.”

Augie handed the file to Seamus. “Please pass this on to your revolutionary friends.”

“What’s in it?” asked Michael. “Remember how I told you when I was at the Agency I

was kind of a roving analyst? I was also a troubleshooter of sorts. Right before I left the

Agency, Director Stansfield asked me to draw up some contingency plans for a …

delicate operation.”

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Seamus looked at the file and then up at his old friend. “What kind of an operation?”

“One that no one other than Stansfield and I were to know about. и .

.

After Stansfield took over, Arthur became even more reclusive.

Stansfield knew that he would have to force Arthur to resign and became increasingly worried about how he would react. There were a lot of concerns that he might turn on us and sell information abroad or use things that he knew to blackmail Stansfield and the

Agency. He was a loose cannon, and no one knew which direction he would fire, so

Stansfield did the prudent thing and asked me to draw up a plan to neutralize him.”

“The folder contains the plan?” asked Michael. “Most of it. There’s detailed schematics of his house on the Chesapeake. It gives a rundown on his security system, where its strengths and weaknesses are, how many guards he has and what their rotation is. The plan is a year and a half old, so I’m not sure how much has changed. I do know that he still spends almost all of his time at the house. He has a lot of enemies, which has made him extremely paranoid over the years.”

“Why aren’t you going to Stansfield with this?”

“Arthur is still very well connected at the Agency. No one really knows how well for sure, but there is a chance he would be forewarned about any plans against him.”

“Is that the real reason or are you just looking for someone to do your dirty work?”

“Nope. I’ll be honest with you, Michael. I would like to have Arthur Higgins killed.

There was a time when he was good for our country, but for the last fifteen years he’s been out of control. When he left the Agency, he was warned to stay out of the intelligence business. Since then he has been cautioned by Stansfield more than once to keep his nose out of the Agency’s business.

I hesitate to take this to Director Stansfield for the reasons I already gave and for the fact that Arthur has a lot of contacts at the National Security Agency. If anything happens to Arthur, they will suspect the CIA.” Augie looked up at the sky for a second. “As to why I’m dumping this on your lap. well и . . you gave him the opportunity to kill Olson and Turnquist, and in my book that means you should be the one to stop him.” Michael stared unwaveringly at Augie and said, “I did nothing. I’m just trying to clean up the mess.”

Augie looked at Seamus.

“This is your doing?”

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“Yes. Can I count on you to stay quiet?”

“Yes. I happen to think that what you’re doing is about twenty years overdue.”

The old spy stuck his hands under his armpits. “We’ve killed politicians in other countries that were far less of a threat to our national security than our own leaders. Don’t you think that during all my years as a covert-operations specialist I thought about doing in America what I was doing abroad?” Michael nodded, remembering that Scott Coleman had said the exact same thing to him a year ago. Michael changed the subject back to

Higgins. “What makes you think we can get to Arthur?”

“I assume that you have some professionals helping you.” Augie paused and held up his hands. “I don’t want to know who they are or what their background is. The less I

know about that the better. If they would kill Fitzgerald, Downs, Koslowski, and Basset and vanish without a trace, I assume they’re pretty good. Arthur has one habit that makes him vulnerable. You’ll find it in the file.” Michael held up the file. “I’m interested to see what’s in here.”