The Assassins

by Oliver North

  Monroe said, “Have fun at the Gold Cup,” and then he exited the senator's office and headed down the darkened, silent hallway toward the parking garage to his car. As he walked, a strange feeling in his gut startled Ralph Monroe. It was fear. He had never doubted Waggoner's driving ambition. But now, twice in one week, he had been given reasons to doubt the senator's integrity. First, he had been told to “leak” a classified document to a reporter at the Washington Post. Now, it was the matter of campaign finances. As he started his car to head back to his apartment to pick up his date, Monroe vowed to start acquiring some insurance. By the time he reached Front Royal and the entrance to Skyline Drive, he had formulated a plan to protect himself—just in case the senator's sins caught up with him.

  Commission Townhouse

  ________________________________________

  5 Jackson Place, Washington, DC

  Saturday, 20 October 2007

  1530 Hours Local

  Peter Newman held up his new White House ID badge as he pulled his car up to the uniformed Secret Service agent at the intersection of 17th Street and Pennsylvania Avenue. The officer, carrying an M-16 rifle and wearing an armored vest, looked glad to see someone. The streets were virtually empty.

  The sentry swiped Newman's badge through a portable mag-card scanner, and when the word Authorized appeared on the tiny screen he pointed to a parking space just beyond Blair House and said, “Go ahead and park there, sir. There hasn't been anyone in all day.”

  Newman did as instructed and proceeded up the brick walkway to 5 Jackson Place, carrying his briefcase. To his right, Lafayette Park—once the site for placard-waving protesters—was vacant. As he bounded up the five steps at the front of the townhouse, the door swung open and a voice from the darkened interior said, “Good afternoon, General Newman.”

  As he strode through the doorway, a young man wearing a blue blazer was standing in front of a large desk, strategically placed in the hallway. Newman said, “You know who I am; who are you?”

  “My name is Dick Green, Secret Service.”

  “Good to meet you, Dick Green. Why are you here?” asked Newman with a smile and holding out his hand.

  The younger man shook the offered hand and held out a White House badge similar to Newman's—but his was emblazoned with the letters USSS across the bottom. “I'm one of eighteen Secret Service agents assigned to this protective detail. Until the day before yesterday I was in the Seattle field office. I was told that you would be in this afternoon to get set up, so I thought I'd better be here to introduce myself.”

  “You're here to protect me?” asked Newman, taken aback.

  Green chuckled, “No, sir. You can pretty much take care of yourself. My agents and I are here to protect the members of the special committee and this building. We've already swept it for ‘bugs,’ tested the intrusion alarms, and made sure that nobody outside can eavesdrop.”

  “I thought this place was already secure,” said Newman, placing his briefcase on the desk.

  “Theoretically it is,” Green replied. “Right outside the front door is Lafayette Square. Across the park, on Madison Place, is the Treasury Department Annex. This townhouse, like all the others here on Jackson Place, backs up on the New Executive Office Building. On both sides of us are offices for other Presidential commissions—but they're all in ‘recess.’ And of course all of this is part of the White House complex. If you want, I can show you around.”

  It took less than fifteen minutes for the Secret Service agent to walk Newman through the building. On the ground floor was a comfortable conference room and spaces for several administrative staff. Each of the five members of the Commission on Threat Mitigation had a private office on the second floor. The third floor was Newman's—with three private offices and plenty of space for communicators and an “Ops Center” for his “Special Unit.”

  “According to what I've been told, there is to be a ‘watch section’ here twenty-four-seven,” Green said at the end of their walk through the building. “I've been given a list of twenty-four military personnel from Defense Communications Agency and WHCA. If there are others who will need access, I'll need to get their names and social security numbers before this place opens for business on Monday morning.”

  “I'll have that for you by then,” Newman replied, appreciative of the agent's no-nonsense businesslike manner. “If I can make a secure phone call, I may even be able to get it for you this afternoon.”

  “Thought you might need something like that,” said Green. “When the WHCA people were here this morning I had 'em activate the secure phone and computer terminal in your office upstairs.”

  The Marine was bounding up the stairs when his cell phone chirped. Flipping it open, he said, “Newman.”

  “Pete, can you call me secure?” asked a familiar voice.

  Newman replied simply, “Yes, sir. Are you in your office?”

  “Yes. And make sure that you're alone.”

  Seconds later Newman was seated at his new desk and connected with the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff over the secure telephone.

  Grisham began without preamble. “Pete, has anyone informed you that several of the Marines you requested for the ‘Special Unit’ were killed and wounded at the Riyadh embassy yesterday?”

  “No, sir.”

  Grisham continued, “Here's the picture. Of the fifty you requested by name from 2nd Force Recon, four are dead, five are WIA, and seven have been exposed to radioactive debris and are under medical observation. Ten of those you wanted from 1st Force Recon are committed in Afghanistan and I can't get them home, rested up, and up to you for at least thirty days. Five of the fifteen SEALs you asked for are in the Philippines chasing after Abu Sayef. The same for six of the ‘D-Boys’ from Bragg. That cuts your total complement to sixty-seven. Is that enough to get you started?”

  Newman had anticipated that there would be complications “manning up” the Special Unit but not to this extent. Nonetheless, he replied, “Yes, sir. We'll find a way to make it work.”

  “Good,” said Grisham. “There's another matter that's fairly sensitive. Do you know Lt. Col. Dan Hart, the CO of 2nd Force?”

  “Yes, sir. He was a battalion XO in my regiment during OIF One.”

  “Well,” Grisham continued, “I just got off the phone with the Commandant, and Hart is pitching a fit about his Marines being ‘requisitioned’ without his knowing where they are going. The Commandant is ready to relieve him, but I think the better course would be to assign him to your Special Unit if you're willing to take him.”

  “That's fine with me, General. Hart's a good man. Most of the troops are coming from his Force Recon Company anyway, so it should work well. Do we have any word yet on when Sergeant Major Skillings will be available?”

  “I talked to him this morning,” Grisham replied. “He told me that he plans to fly to Washington this weekend and be at work Monday morning.”

  “Sounds like Amos,” Newman said with a chuckle. “Is he able to walk?”

  “He mentioned something about the doctor telling him he'll have to wait ten days before he can put his full weight on his foot, so I think he's probably using crutches,” replied Grisham, “but you know as well as I do that he'll still be there at your doorstep promptly at 0700 on Monday. I'll bet you'll have to order him to desk duty for a couple weeks, or else he'll suck up the pain and be on his feet no matter what.”

  “If I know Amos, he won't appreciate the idea of desk duty. As you say, I guess I'll just have to order him to do it. I'm pretty sure I can find something to keep him occupied.”

  Oval Office, The White House

  ________________________________________

  Washington, DC

  Sunday, 21 October 2007

  1800 Hours Local

  “Thank you again, gentlemen,” said the President, rising from his chair by the fireplace as the Vice President arose beside him. “I especially appreciate your coming into town for this meeting on
a Sunday. I had intended to do this at Camp David to keep it more private, but this weather precluded any helo flights and it's a long drive.” As if on cue, the rain beating against the ballistic panes of the Oval Office windows sounded like pellets being thrown against a wall.

  “Not a problem, Mr. President,” said Chief Justice Anthony Scironi, now standing before the couch where he had been seated for nearly an hour. He and his five colleagues on the “Commission on Threat Mitigation” had arrived separately via the tunnel from the Department of the Treasury to avoid being seen by the White House press corps. “As you requested, we will convene tomorrow across the street to start our deliberations. All of us understand the gravity of the situation and will do our best.”

  “I know you will,” said the President. “I trust the Secret Service has taken adequate care of your accommodations—or are you all camped out in the Chief Justice's kitchen?”

  Former Secretary of State James Cook chuckled and said, “They have me in a suite at the Willard. I'm just glad I'm not paying for it.”

  “I'm staying at the Army and Navy Club, Mr. President,” answered Gen. Conrad Vassar. “The Secret Service lads think that I should move over to the VIP quarters at Fort Meyer after a few days, but I don't want to get in George Grisham's way,” added the former JCS chairman.

  “Did your wife come with you?” the President asked Gerald Donahue.

  “Yes, sir. We're at the J. W. Marriott—also in a very nice suite,” replied the retired FBI director. “Though Mrs. Donahue is glad to be back here, she's a bit disappointed that all her old friends seem to be out of town.”

  “And where do we hide our former spy chiefs in this town?”

  Russell Bates, former CIA director, smiled and replied, “In plain sight, Mr. President. I'm at the Hay-Adams—right across Lafayette Square from the Commission offices. I always stay there when I'm in town. You know, from the top floor of that hotel you can look right into the White House residence.”

  The President nodded and, as he walked them to the door and their escorts waiting in the Roosevelt Room, said, “I'll be sure to remind the First Lady to keep the drapes drawn.”

  Once Commission members had departed, the President returned to the warmth of the fireplace. The once crackling blaze was now just glowing embers. He turned to the Vice President and said, “What do you think?”

  “With the Chief Justice in charge, they aren't going to do anything rash,” the Vice President replied. “You've known Jim Cook for years. And I'd trust old General Vassar with my life. That's three out of five.”

  “What about Donahue and Bates?”

  “I don't know them well, but they're serious men. Do you have concerns about them?” asked the Vice President.

  “I'm sorry to say that I don't really know the answer to that. I do know that the Bible says that men's hearts are ‘desperately wicked’ and ‘who can know them?’ Even men with the best intentions can sometimes get carried away or stray down the wrong path. I'm just praying that those guys are careful, really careful.”

  Office of Senator James Waggoner

  ________________________________________

  Capitol Hill, Washington, DC

  Sunday, 21 October 2007

  2100 Hours Local

  The operator answered, “Hay-Adams Hotel. How may I help you?” Senator James Waggoner said, “Please connect me to the suite of Mr. Russell Bates.”

  As the call was being transferred Waggoner pulled out the 3 × 5 card on which he'd jotted a few notes to prompt him in his conversation with the former CIA chieftain.

  “Hello…?” a voice on the other end said.

  “Good evening, Russell. I trust you're having a good rest for the Sabbath and getting your energy up for your meeting tomorrow. How was your meeting with ‘POTUS’ this evening?” Waggoner said in his usual vocal version of southern syrup. Bates knew at once who it was.

  “Well, Senator, it's been some time since we've talked. Thank you for inquiring about my health. How are you—and how the devil did you know I was here?”

  “I'm fine, Russell. And as for knowing where you are—you must have forgotten that I'm the Chairman of the Senate Intelligence Committee. Listen, I need you to come over to my office for a bit. I have some things I'd like to talk to you about,” Waggoner said.

  Bates had absolutely no intention of going out in the awful weather again—short of some kind of national emergency—and he certainly didn't want to go up to Capitol Hill to meet with the “senior senator.” So he offered an alternative: “James, why don't you come here and see me. We can go down to the lobby bar and relax, or have a few drinks right here in this lovely suite they've given to me to use while I'm here for this little ‘project.’ It's really quite nice.”

  Waggoner dropped the southern charm and got right to the point. His voice had a sharp edge. “Russell, don't give me that crap. I need for you to come to me. And don't use the car and driver that they've given you. It's better if you take a cab—it's more discreet. I'll expect you in a half hour,” Waggoner said, and then hung up abruptly.

  Russell Bates arrived at the Dirksen Building fifteen minutes after the call, irked at Waggoner's arrogance, but knowing that the senator still held a good hand if it ever came to a showdown.

  The senator was waiting in the lobby of the office building when the taxi pulled up, and he had the security guard buzz Bates inside. The two walked silently to the elevator—and then down the long silent corridor to Waggoner's office.

  Once inside the confines of the office, Bates was amazed at the senator's change in demeanor. It was as if Waggoner had found a long lost friend. “Scotch, neat, as I recall,” Waggoner said with a smile. He poured the drink and carried it to Bates, who was perched in an overstuffed leather chair, trying to keep his trousers, soaked in the downpour, from losing their crease.

  “Russell, I'm sorry I had to be so impertinent with you,” Waggoner said, once again wearing his “southern gentleman” persona. “It's just that I have some important things to discuss with you, and I didn't want either of us to be bothered by having to answer questions for the White House or anyone else who's keeping tabs on you—maybe even the CIA.”

  “I haven't gotten that paranoid, James,” Bates said, sipping his drink. “I don't think anyone cares a rat's—uh…well, who cares anything about my comings and goings these days.”

  “Well, once burned, twice careful…or whatever that saying is, I always say,” Waggoner replied.

  “What's so important that you want to sneak me here on a rainy Sunday night?”

  “Russell…y'all know that we go way back. Remember how thick we were back in '95? I think we were the only Republicans with any sense back when that good ol' southern boy was livin' there at 1600 an' gettin' himself in all that trouble with the ladies. And you remember when his National Security Advisor got in deep…uh…trouble, he 'bout threw everybody overboard so the ship of state wouldn't sink under his weight—which y'all will recall was ponderous.”

  Both men laughed at the recollection, but with Bates it was a forced levity. He knew where Waggoner was going with this.

  “Jus' think, Russell. Our friendship has weathered all those years.” The senator paused for effect. Bates used the hesitation to swallow the last of his drink. Waggoner continued, but this time the drawl became less perceptible and he became more urbane and straightforward. “Look, Russell…I need you to return a favor for me. Think of it as a little ‘return’ for my keeping you out of various hearings, depositions, and indictments when that Silicon Valley defense contractor's problems*blew up. I'm sure you remember that I was the one who kept you out of that mess and, more specifically, kept you out of jail.”

  *From the authors' first novel, Mission Compromised, © 2002, Broadman & Holman Publishers.

  Bates clenched his teeth but said nothing. He knew that the old carpetbagger was right—Waggoner had saved his hide when Congressional committees and Justice Department attorneys were rounding up e
veryone who was even remotely connected to that scandal.

  “Yes, it was surely a scandal of epic proportions,” said Waggoner, as if reading Bates's mind. “Actually, I think that it might even have been worse except for the distraction provided by that perky little gal in the blue beret. Remember her? Proof once again, Russell, that sex sells better in the media than any other sin.”

  Bates had long ago gotten the point. “What do you need from me, James?” he asked.

  “I have only one small request,” Waggoner said. “I want you to add a name to the list of targets to be assassinated—and I want it at the top of the list.”

  “Who? And why?”

  “The name is Samuel Mubassa.”

  “Mubassa? The UN deputy—that Mubassa?” Bates asked, surprised.

  “The man's a treacherous terrorist, Russell. I have proof, but to reveal it would compromise national defense secrets, and I cannot do that,” Waggoner said.

  “But you want him killed. Why?”

  “Because he's a terrorist, and I've learned that he's using money he made in the ‘Oil for Food’ scandal to fund al Qaeda, Iran, and who knows what else.”

  “But—” Bates started to argue.

  Waggoner waved off his objections. “Listen, Bates,” he said sharply, “I'm asking you to return a favor—one that I've not forgotten. You owe me; you owe me big time. Now listen to me. You tell that Commission that this guy belongs at the top of the list because he's a dangerous terrorist, using his ill-gotten gains to fund terrorist activities against U.S. citizens. If I have to, I can even provide you with proof that Mubassa is in cahoots with the Iranians and whoever else is behind this Saudi mess.”

  “What kind of proof?” Bates asked.

  “Let's just say we have to be careful here because so much is going on behind the scenes with the State and Defense departments. Some of this stuff we have to keep out of the newspapers. But I can show you documents that prove that Mubassa's daddy had a hand in this Saudi crisis because he wants to expand his Nigerian oil business by taking over the Saudi fields.” That statement was an outright lie, but Waggoner had the chutzpa to pull it off. He continued spinning his yarn, with imaginary details of conspiracies and assassinations, so that after ten minutes Bates had almost begun to believe Mubassa really was a “treacherous terrorist” who needed to be assassinated.