by Vince Flynn
Following that incident, the president put together a task force and asked them to come up with a strategy for correcting this shortcoming. Stansfield was placed on the task force, which he thought was nothing more than a waste of time and energy. After months of late meetings and lengthy debates, the task force briefed the president on its findings. They told him that America needed to increase its human intelligence-gathering apparatus on a global scale. They told him it would take a long-term commitment, and that it could be a minimum of six to ten years before they started to see any tangible results from their efforts. To Stansfield’s amazement the president not only agreed, but decided that since the current director of the CIA was retiring shortly, it would make sense to have someone who understood the human side of the business running the Agency.
Some people were upset that they had been passed over for the position, but most of them had no choice but to respect the decision. Stansfield was an icon, a real-life spook. He had earned his spurs running around behind the Iron Curtain risking his life. He had risen through the ranks and put in his time.
The phone on Stansfield’s desk started to ring, and he looked over the top of his spectacles to see which line it was. The light blinking on the far right told him it was his private line. He grabbed the phone and said hello.
“Tom, Brian Roach here. Sorry to bother you on a Sunday night, but I need to run a couple of things by you.” It wasn’t unusual for Roach to be calling his counterpart at the CIA, but tonight he felt a little uncomfortable.
“No problem at all, Brian. I’m just trying to get a head start on the week. What can I help you with?”
After a prolonged pause, Roach said, “Tom, I need to ask you a couple of questions, and if you don’t want to answer them, please just tell me.”
“Go right ahead.”
“Tom, do you or does anyone at the Agency possess any information that would lead you to believe the murders were committed for reasons other than those stated in that letter?”
Stansfield’s eyebrows frowned at the question. “Not that I know of.”
“No one at the Agency has told the White House that they have discovered some information that suggests the motives of the killings were something other than those stated in that letter?” Roach asked again, more firmly.
“No, I thought you guys were the ones that came up with that theory.”
Roach breathed a long, frustrated sigh. “No, we haven’t told the White House anything.”
“Then why are the president and all of his people running around town saying that you have?”
“That’s what I would like to find out.”
“It sounds like they’re up to something.” Stansfield leaned back in his chair and turned to look at a map of the world on his wall.
“Yeah, I’ve been getting the same feeling.” Roach paused and took another deep breath. “Any advice?”
Stansfield thought about the question. He was normally careful about giving his opinion, but he and Roach were of the same cloth. He had a lot of empathy for his counterpart at the FBI. It might be Roach whom they were doing a job on this week, but it could easily be him next time.
“I think it may be a good idea to drop a little hint to the media that you have no idea what the White House is talking about.”
Roach pondered the advice for a moment. He liked the direct approach. “Thanks, Tom, I appreciate the advice. If you hear of anything, please let me know.”
“Will do.” Stansfield set the phone back in its cradle and closed his eyes. Mike Nance and his associates made him nervous. Nance was the real brains over at the White House, the man with the connections.
Garret was sitting in his office with his feet up on the desk and an array of newspapers before him. It was just after six on Monday morning, and his plan was coming along nicely. With a cigarette dangling from his lips he snickered at how easy it was to manipulate the media. The front page of the Washington Post read, “Murky Conspiracy Rumored to Be Behind Murders.” The front page of the New York Times read, “FBI Thinks Murders Were Committed to Stop President’s Budget.” The Washington Reader read, “FBI Thinks Letter Is Bogus.” Garret laughed out loud. It had been so easy. It made no difference if it was made up or not, the damage had been done. The American people would read the headlines and believe what they saw. Public support would rally back to the president, and they would ride it into a second term. Garret shook his head and grinned as he thought of the power he wielded.
Garret’s plan was simple. All he had to do was continue to portray the president as a victim and hope those idiots over at the FBI could catch these people. He smiled at how easy it was to play the power game against principled men like Roach. While they took the time to decide if a course of action was right or wrong, Garret worried only about being caught. He had no time for petty little laws and technicalities, and he definitely had no time for someone else’s morals. He was there to get things done, and to play the game by his own rules.
Director Roach’s limousine pulled up in front of the Hyatt hotel at 6:55 A.M. He was there to give a brief speech to the National Convention of Police Chiefs. Because of the assassinations, he had considered having one of his deputies handle the speech, but after talking to Stansfield, he decided to give it himself. He’d just finished scanning a Washington Reader article stating that the FBI thought there was a conspiracy behind the murders. As his bodyguards opened the door of the limo, a small mob of about eight reporters and cameramen closed in. Roach stepped out of the limo and said hello to the group. A tall, blond-haired woman got to him first. “Director Roach, could you please tell us what information the FBI has discovered that would lead you to believe the letter sent to the media after the killings is a cover for the real reason Senator Downs, Senator Fitzgerald, and Congressman Koslowski were killed?”
To the surprise of Roach’s bodyguards, their boss stopped to answer the question. The reporters jostled each other to get their mikes in Roach’s face.
“As of right now, we believe that letter to be sincere and are very concerned about the possibility of further assassinations.”
A tall male reporter blurted out the next question. “Director Roach, do you think the murders were committed in an attempt to derail President Stevens’s budget?”
“No, I do not. We think the assassinations took place on the eve of the budget vote because it guaranteed the assassins that Congressman Koslowski, Senator Downs, and Senator Fitzgerald would be in town.”
“I don’t understand. The White House has been reporting that the FBI believes the murders were committed to derail the president’s budget,” said a somewhat confused reporter.
“Those reports are incorrect.” Before another question could be asked, Roach turned and entered the hotel. Within minutes, his comments were being played as the lead story on every morning network news show.
Without knocking, Garret opened the door to Nance’s office and barged in. Nance glanced up from his TV, which was showing the taped interview of Roach.
“What in the hell is he doing?” asked Garret as he pointed at the TV.
Nance turned his head away from the TV. “Relax, Stu, this was expected. You didn’t really think he would sit there and let us use him, did you?”
“Hell no, but I at least thought he’d come to us, not go to the press,” Garret said, glaring at the TV.
“Calm down, we already got what we wanted. The polls have swung ten points in our favor. The people think there’s some big conspiracy to ruin the president. The press loves the story and will run with it, regardless of what Roach says. We’ll have Moncur release a statement saying it was improperly implied that the FBI had discovered the information when it was in fact another government agency. They’ll all assume it’s the CIA, and it’ll make the story that much better. Besides, we can use this ‘Roach thing’ to our advantage. He fired the first shot. With a few leaks to the right people, the press will be printing stories saying there’s bad blood be
tween Roach and the White House, and if he doesn’t make some progress in solving these murders, things will get very uncomfortable for him. Combine that with the fact that our friends in the media will be more than willing to do a butcher job on a saint like Roach, and we’ll have his letter of resignation in our hands by next month.” In a rare moment of emotion, Nance smiled at Garret, and the gesture was returned.
13
THE BELL ATLANTIC VAN WAS PARKED ON NEW Hampshire Avenue, a half block from Dupont Circle. The two men in the back checked their makeup and equipment one last time. On top of their Afro wigs they were wearing yellow plastic hard hats. They were also wearing blue coveralls with a Bell Atlantic patch over the left pocket. They nodded to the driver, grabbed their bags, and climbed out of the van. Casually, they walked down the stairs leading to the Dupont Circle platform of the D.C. metro. Upon reaching the platform, they climbed on board the metro and took the red line to Union Station. They arrived about five minutes later and got off. Threading their way through the other subway riders, they walked to the end of the platform and stepped out onto the small ledge running along the side of the tunnel. After about fifty feet they reached a doorway and stopped. The shorter man handed a bag to his accomplice and went to work on the lock. Twenty seconds later they were in.
They stepped through the vault door that led to one of the underground tunnel systems that ran beneath Washington, D.C. The system they had just entered housed mostly phone lines and various utility pipes. The sewers carrying the city’s waste and water runoff were located in another system that was buried even deeper. As they walked through the squared cement tunnel, the taller of the two men had to tilt his head to one side to avoid hitting the lights that were spaced about every fifty feet overhead. They took a series of turns, and after about three minutes they were standing in front of another door. Again, the shorter of the two went to work on the lock. When he was finished picking it, he opened the door and placed a piece of duct tape over the lock. The two men stepped into the subbasement of a twelve-story office building and let the door close behind them.
The shorter of the two headed for the staircase and disappeared. The second man weaved through the mass of pipes and structural supports until he found what he was looking for. He pried open the steel access panel to the main duct of the building’s ventilation system and placed it on the ground.
The other man had just finished climbing to the sixth floor of the multitenant office building. They had scouted the building months in advance. The top five floors were leased by a law firm, and the rest of the floors were half-filled with lobbying firms, smaller offices, and various other businesses. Vacant suites were interspersed on all of the floors except the top five. He opened the staircase door and looked down the hallway. With no one in sight, he casually walked down the hall and stopped at the third door on his right. Setting his bag down, he started to pick the lock. Speed was not crucial; acting relaxed and nonchalant was. He wasn’t worried about one of the office workers seeing him. If they did, they wouldn’t be surprised by someone from the phone company going into an empty office suite.
Finishing with the lock, he entered the room and walked over to the tinted window. Dropping to one knee, he set his bag down and emptied the contents, laying them out on the floor in a precise manner. In under a minute he assembled the rifle and placed the nitroglycerin-tipped round in the chamber. Twenty seconds later the rifle was affixed to the top of a tripod. The assassin eased his left eye in behind the scope and stared down at the front door of the building directly across the street. He then turned on the laser sight, and a small red dot appeared on the tinted window. Twisting the screws on the tripod, he locked the rifle into place, and then, reaching into his bag, he grabbed a glass cutter and placed the suction cup in the middle of the red dot. Slowly, he swung the cutting piece in a clockwise motion with his right hand. Instead of popping the newly cut piece free, he tied one end of string around the glass cutter and the other end around one of the tripod’s legs.
Pulling the microphone arm down from under the short brim of his hard hat, he said, “Chuck, this is Sam, come in, over.”
Despite the whine of the machinery in the basement, the second man heard his partner loud and clear. “This is Chuck, over.”
“Everything is set on my end, over.”
“Roger, everything is set down here, over.”
Secret Service agent Harry Dorle had been pulled out of the field and directed to head the personal protection detail for Congressman Thomas Basset. Since Basset was the Speaker of the House, he was deemed a high-profile target by the FBI and the Secret Service. Dorle had been the special agent in charge for the presidential detail of the previous administration. When his boss lost his reelection bid to Stevens, it was the end of Dorle’s assignment. Like most of the presidents before him, Stevens wanted a changing of the guard. The Secret Service did not object to this tradition because they knew it was good for their agents to be rotated. It helped prevent complacency and boredom.
Dorle sat in the lobby of Speaker Basset’s Capitol office and waited for the Speaker to give the word that he was ready to leave. The tall, middle-aged agent looked calm on the outside, but inside he was a wreck. He had read the report on the Koslowski, Fitzgerald, and Downs assassinations, and it scared him. The assassins were professionals. Three hits, all in one night. One a bare-handed kill, the second a rifle shot, and the third a point-blank hit. These guys were not your run-of-the-mill Aryan Nation types. They were pros, and with the way Basset liked to gallivant around town, he would be an easy target.
Because there were so many congressmen and senators to protect, the Secret Service had not been able to give Dorle the number of agents he wanted. They had given him only five men and women, and the Speaker’s normal Capitol Police detail had been increased to eight officers around the clock. Dorle made a cursory effort to ask Basset to cancel all public appearances until things cooled down, and as Dorle had expected, Basset declined. This, of course, made Dorle’s job extremely difficult. He knew the only way to really protect Basset was to keep him locked up in his house, his office, or his armor-plated limo. As soon as Basset left either of the three, Dorle’s ability to protect him was reduced significantly.
They were minutes away from leaving for Basset’s taped interview with CNN. Dorle told his new boss that he thought it was a bad idea, and Basset had politely told him he wasn’t going to cancel. CNN had been advertising the appearance of the Speaker since late Sunday afternoon, and although it would be tape-delayed, it wouldn’t take a genius to figure out when the taping would take place. Dorle could not remember being more worried about an assignment. Whoever these killers were, they’d had months to plan what they were doing. They’d stalked and studied their targets, and if that letter was for real, they would strike again.
Dorle was gambling with his assets. He just didn’t have enough men to do a complete job. He had sent four of his Secret Service agents and two of the uniformed officers ahead to do an advance check of the CNN building. They were to do a quick check of the street, the exits, and the rooftop. He would put four of the uniformed cops on body detail. They would surround Basset as he got out of the limo and walked into the studio. Dorle had contemplated using his Secret Service agents for the body detail; they were trained to do it, but they were more valuable to him doing other things.
Speaker Basset and his aide, Matthew Schwab, appeared in the lobby, and Dorle rose to his feet. “Are you ready to go, sir?”
“Yes,” Basset answered.
Dorle brought his left hand up to his mouth and spoke into a tiny microphone. “Art, this is Harry, over.”
The Secret Service agent just outside the office door responded, “This is Art, over.”
“Bobcat is ready to roll, over.” Bobcat was the code name that had been given to Basset.
The agent looked up and down the hall and nodded to the police officer holding the elevator. “The hallway is secure, over.”
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sp; “Roger, let the boys downstairs know we’re on our way, over.” Dorle turned to Basset and motioned for the door. “Whenever you’re ready, sir.” Dorle opened the door and Basset and Schwab stepped into the hallway. The entourage of Basset, Schwab, Dorle, the other Secret Service agent, and two cops started for the elevator. Dorle took up the rear, while the other three men surrounded Basset and Schwab. The entourage stepped into the elevator for the short ride to the garage level.
When the door opened, another police officer was waiting for them, and the group moved out for the underground parking garage. Dorle wasn’t nervous about anything happening in the Capitol. The assassins would have to be suicidal to try something with all the military personnel and police in the building.
