by Vince Flynn
“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.”
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 congressmen, 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. 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 congressmen 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.”
“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 congressmen 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. “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 w
ork 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?”
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.”
23
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 maître d’ looked up along his thin nose and said, “May I help you?”
“Three for lunch, please,” said Michael.
“Do you have a reservation?”
“Yes, I think it’s under Olson.”
The maître 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 maître 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 maître 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 maître d’ pushed in the chair.
The maître 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 maître d’. Michael and Seamus stood to meet their friend. Olson pushed his way by two of the guards and the maître 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 maître d’ seated the four Secret Service agents at the next table. 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.”