by Vince Flynn
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 oneonone.”
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.”
“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 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.”
“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 Warch 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 Warch 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 Warch 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 retrieve it.” McMahon f
inished 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 Warch 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 himself too much to let what Garret was saying upset him. Leaning back in his chair, McMahon folded his arms and smiled.
Jack Warch, who was sitting next to Garret, leaned forward and caught the chief of staff’s eye. Warch 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, Warch 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.
Warch 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 Warch 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 Warch’s boss this time for an answer, but didn’t get one.
Warch had convinced his boss to stay out of it and let him put the fear of God into the president. Warch 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.” Warch paused briefly, his voice taking on a more authoritative tone. “Special Agent Dorle 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.”
Warch again paused and looked at the president, letting the tension mount. He was going to play this hand for everything it was worth. “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, Warch briefed the participants on th
e evidence they’d found under the bridge—such as the radar dishes, and what efforts were being made to 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?”