by Vince Flynn
“Federal Bureau of Investigation. How may I help you?”
“Special Agent McMahon, please.”
“Just one moment.”
The phone started to ring again and then another person answered. “Special Agent McMahon’s office.”
“Special Agent McMahon, please.”
“Special Agent McMahon is away from his desk right now. May I ask who is calling?”
“Is he in the building this morning?”
“I’m sorry, but I’m not allowed to answer that. May I ask who is calling?”
Michael hit the brakes to avoid ramming a cab that pulled out in front of him. “This is Congressman O’Rourke, and I need to speak with him . . . it’s extremely urgent!”
“Special Agent McMahon is very busy right now. It would help if I could tell him what it was that you wanted.”
“I don’t want anything. I need to give him something that I think he will be very interested in.”
“What is it regarding?”
Michael let out an audible sigh. “Listen, I know you’re only trying to do your job, but this is something that I can’t talk about over the phone.”
“You said your name was Congressman O’Rourke?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll see if I can track him down, but it would help if I could give him even the slightest hint as to what you wanted. He has been getting a lot of phone calls from congressmen and senators lately.”
“I don’t want anything from him. I want to give him something. Something that will have an enormous impact on his investigation.”
“Just one minute, Congressman. I’ll see if I can track him down.”
With his digital phone clutched to his ear, O’Rourke circled the Hoover Building. Several minutes later, McMahon answered the phone.
“Congressman O’Rourke, sorry to keep you waiting. How are you doing?”
“I’ve been better.”
“Sorry to hear that. What can I do for you?”
“I have something that I need to give you.”
“What is it?”
“I don’t want to talk about it over the phone.”
“All right, let me get my Day-Timer and see when I have an opening.”
“This can’t wait.”
“Congressman, do you have any idea how busy I am right now?”
“Yes, I do. Believe me, it won’t be a waste of your time.”
McMahon paused. “When do you want to meet?”
“I’m down on the street, in my truck.”
“Ah . . . I’m in the middle of something right now, can you give me an hour?”
Michael tried to sound as relaxed as he could. “Special Agent McMahon, do you want to know who killed Senator Olson and Congressman Turnquist?”
There was a moment of silence on the line and then McMahon responded, “All right, I’ll be down in five minutes. Pick me up at the south entrance.”
O’Rourke completed one more circle and pulled up to the curb. McMahon came out of the building a moment later and approached the truck with someone Michael didn’t recognize. Michael rolled down the passenger window and McMahon leaned in, sticking his hand out. Michael grabbed it and said, “Who is she?”
“This is Irene Kennedy. She works for the CIA and has been helping out with the investigation.”
“Get in,” replied O’Rourke.
McMahon climbed in the front seat and Kennedy got in back. Michael put the car into drive and pulled back out into traffic. Looking in the rearview mirror, Michael asked, “What do you do for the CIA, Dr. Kennedy?”
“I’m an analyst.”
“What do you analyze?”
“Terrorism is my specialty.”
“Are you familiar with a guy by the name of Arthur Higgins?”
Kennedy moved forward. “Very. . . . What do you know about him?”
Michael reached down and grabbed a letter-sized manila envelope from the center console and handed it to McMahon. “I found this on my doorstep this morning along with a tape, and you’re not going to believe what’s on it.” Michael put the tape into the cassette player.
Stansfield and Roach entered the Situation Room and sat across the table from Nance and Garret. Both directors said hello to the president, but ignored his national security adviser and chief of staff.
Nance hadn’t planned on Roach coming. He forced a slight smile onto his face and said, “Director Roach, we weren’t informed that you would be joining us this morning.”
“I asked him to come,” replied Stansfield. “Arthur was transported across state lines and killed. The investigation falls under the jurisdiction of the FBI.”
“What investigation?” asked Nance.
“The investigation into his death.”
“Surely you aren’t serious. We can’t have what Arthur did for the CIA brought under public scrutiny.”
“That will be up to Director Roach and the Justice Department.” Stansfield looked at the president. “Sir, may I be blunt?”
“I would prefer it,” responded an aggravated Stevens.
“Arthur Higgins was privy to a rather large amount of highly classified information. My foremost concern is to identify the correlation between his being taken from his estate and being left at Mr. Garret’s house. I have to know what Arthur’s relationship was with Mr. Garret so I can assess any possible damage to the Agency. We can go about this one of two ways: Mr. Garret can either tell me and my people everything he knows under the protection of the national secrecy act, or he can tell his story under deposition to the FBI.”
The president looked at Garret and said, “Stu?”
Garret turned to Nance for direction. Nance cleared his throat and said, “Director Roach, would you excuse us for a minute?”
Roach didn’t say a word. He looked to Stansfield, who nodded, telling him it was all right. Roach got out of his chair and left the room. As soon as he was gone, Stansfield zeroed in on Garret. “What was your relationship to Arthur?”
Again, Garret glanced at Nance for support. Nance looked back across the table and said, “Arthur was helping us with a little project that had nothing to do with the CIA or the intelligence community.”
“What was the project?”
“I would rather not say.” Nance didn’t want to give in too quickly.
“That’s not how this is going to work, Mike. You either tell me, or the FBI starts digging, and neither of us want that.”
“It was purely a domestic issue . . . political in nature.”
“All the more reason that the FBI should be involved,” responded Stansfield.
“Thomas, I’m telling the truth. What we were doing with Arthur had nothing to do with the Agency. He was simply doing some freelance work for us that was political and nothing else.”
Stansfield looked at his watch and then at Garret. “Do you want me to bring Director Roach back in?”
The speechless Garret had beads of sweat forming on his forehead and upper lip. He was so flustered all he could do was shake his head from side to side.
“What in the hell is going on here?” asked the president. “A former employee of the CIA shows up dead on your lawn, Stu, and you look like you’re about to have a nervous breakdown. I want some answers!”
“Sir, as I said earlier,” responded Nance, “for your own protection, I think it would be best if you remained in the dark on this.”
“For my own protection, I want to know what in the hell is going on!” Stevens’s complexion reddened.
Nance took a deep breath and paused, as if gathering his thoughts. “We recruited Arthur to help aid in the passage of your budget through the House.”
“How?” asked the president.
“He did some . . . background checks on several congressmen.”
Stansfield shook his head sideways knowing full well what background checks really meant.
The president asked, “What do you mean by ‘background checks’?”
“
Arthur gathered some information for us that we used to convince some of the more reluctant congressmen to vote for your budget.”
“You did what?” asked an exasperated Stevens. “Stu, was this your idea?”
“No . . . well, kind of . . .”
Stansfield watched the president grow irate and decided that he had likely been kept in the dark.
Kennedy was too engrossed in Arthur’s taped confession to do anything but listen. When it was over, it dawned on her that she needed to get ahold of Stansfield immediately. Grabbing the digital phone from her pocket, she dialed the direct line to her boss’s office. After six rings it rolled over to his secretary. “Director Stansfield’s office. How may I help you?”
“Pat, this is Irene. Where is Thomas?”
“He’s at the White House.”
“Get ahold of him immediately!” said Kennedy tersely. “It’s very important.”
McMahon was in the front seat doing the same thing, but trying to get ahold of Roach. Michael continued to drive and prepare himself for the inevitable landslide of questions.
Back in the Situation Room, Stansfield waited for the president to stop yelling and then asked, “Who did he blackmail?”
“I think we have cooperated more than enough,” responded Nance. “You don’t need names.”
“Yes, I do. Because I am going to have to talk to them.”
“Thomas, I would prefer to let this thing die,” said Nance.
“I’m sure you would, but I’m not going to let it. Whoever killed Arthur also interrogated him. The pathologists told me he was loaded with sodium pentothal. If you two think you’re out of the woods by telling me you blackmailed several congressmen, you’re wrong. Whoever took Arthur got some information out of him, and it obviously had something to do with Mr. Garret.”
A look of sheer panic flashed across Garret’s face and he shouted, “They interrogated him?”
Nance stayed calm and smiled. “You’re bluffing, Thomas.”
“I’ll show you the toxicology reports if you’d like.”
“Don’t insult me.” Nance smiled with a wide grin and said, “You could doctor them to say anything you wanted.”
“Come now, Mike, who is insulting who? Look at your friend Mr. Garret. He’s wound up so tight he’s about to snap. You’re not telling me everything there is to know about your dealings with Arthur, and that’s fine.” Stansfield held his hands up. “I’m sure Director Roach and his people will have more success in finding out what really happened.”
“Enough!” snapped the president. “Stu and Mike, I want to hear the whole story right now. No more games!”
There was a knock on the door and a Secret Service agent entered. “Director Stansfield, your office is on the line. They say it’s an emergency.
You can take the call right here.” The agent pointed to a phone on a table by the door.
Stansfield walked over to the phone and grabbed it. “Hello.”
Kennedy sat in the back of O’Rourke’s truck and spoke rapidly into her phone. “Thomas, this is Irene. Where are you?”
“I’m in the Situation Room.”
“I have something that you are going to want to hear immediately.”
“What?”
“I can’t say, just trust me. Leave there immediately, and get back to Langley as quick as you can!”
Stansfield looked over his shoulder at the president, who was yelling at Nance and Garret. “Irene, I’m in the middle of something really important.”
“Thomas, I have a taped confession from Arthur, and you’re not going to believe what’s on it.”
Stansfield hesitated for a second and replied, “I’ll get there as quickly as I can.” After hanging up, Stansfield walked back to the table and looked at the president. “I’m sorry, sir, but something very important has come up. I’m going to have to head back to Langley.”
Stevens shook his head. “What could be more important than this?”
“I don’t know, but I’ll call you as soon as I find out. We’ll have to continue this later.”
Adjacent to Director Stansfield’s office was a soundproof conference room. Kennedy, McMahon, and Michael sat at the conference table and waited for Director Roach and Director Stansfield to arrive. Michael kept wondering when the questions would start. He knew that eventually McMahon would ask why the assassins chose him to be their courier. Michael would play dumb and profess his hatred and open contempt for Washington politics. The tape was his trump card. As long as the FBI and the CIA thought that hundreds of copies could be mailed to the media at any moment, they would watch where they dug. Even if they did find something, where could they go with the information?
The door flew open and Stansfield and Roach entered, agitated and out of breath. Stansfield yanked off his overcoat and said to Kennedy, “Irene, this had better be for real. You just pulled me out of a huge meeting.”
“Don’t worry, it won’t be a waste of your time.” Kennedy pointed at Michael. “Thomas, this is Congressman Michael O’Rourke. He came to us with some information that you’re not going to believe.” Kennedy looked back at O’Rourke and said, “Congressman, this is Director Stansfield and Director Roach.”
Michael rose and shook both of their hands.
McMahon pointed at Michael. “When the congressman awoke this morning, he found a package on his front step. It was from the assassins. Inside was a taped confession of Arthur Higgins.” McMahon held up the tape and shook it. “It contains some disturbing information. Along with the tape is a list of conditions the assassins want met.”
Stansfield gestured for Roach to take a seat and said, “Let’s hear it.”
McMahon inserted the tape and pressed play.
Some static began hissing from the small tape player, and then Michael’s computer-altered voice asked, “What is your name?”
“What?” asked Arthur’s drugged voice.
“What is your name?”
“Arthur . . . Arthur Higgins.” Stansfield’s eyes closed.
“When were you born?”
“February thirteenth, 1919.”
“Who were your parents?”
“Arthur and Mary Higgins.”
“Who do you work for?”
“I don’t work for anyone. Why don’t you take those masks off and we’ll talk. . . . I’m a very wealthy man.”
“Who did you used to work for, Mr. Higgins?”
“The CIA.”
“What did you do for the CIA?”
“A lot of things. . . . Why don’t we talk about releasing me before you find out something that you don’t want to know.”
“When you were at the CIA, which directorate did you work in?”
“Operations.”
“Specifically, what part of the Operations Directorate?”
“Black Ops . . . I did a lot of stuff.”
“What did you do for the Black Ops?”
“I ran it.”
“Why did you leave the CIA?”
“I quit.”
“Did you quit or were you forced out?”
“I was forced out.”
“Why were you forced out?”
“They were afraid of me.”
“Who was afraid of you?”
“Everyone.”
“Specifically, who was afraid of you?”
“Stansfield and Olson.” Stansfield didn’t bother looking up. He kept his eyes closed and listened.
“Mr. Higgins, were you the author of a covert operation back in the early sixties that resulted in the assassinations of several French politicians?” Stansfield felt a sharp pain shoot through his forehead.
“Yes,” responded Arthur’s thick voice.
“Who were you working for at the time?”
“The CIA.” Irene Kennedy looked to her boss. She had never heard of the covert operation, but it was long before her time.