by Vince Flynn
O’Rourke looked down at his friend and then across the room at the president. “No, I’ll wait here.”
Olson looked at the young O’Rourke, as he’d done many times before, and asked himself why Michael had decided to get into politics. “Have you ever met him before?”
“No.”
“Well, then come on.” Olson stepped away and waved his hand toward the president.
“I have no desire to meet him. I’ll wait for you in the hallway.”
Olson knew by the look in the stubborn O’Rourke’s eyes that it was worthless to ask a third time. The senator nodded his head and turned to make his way toward the president.
16
IT WAS DARK OUT WHEN O’ROURKE PARKED his dark green Chevy Tahoe in front of Scarlatti’s apartment building. He was thirty minutes late. Looking forward to spending some time with her, he bounded up the steps. He could always put everything else out of his mind and relax when he was with Liz. O’Rourke knocked on the door, and a moment later it opened. Instead of greeting him with the usual kiss, Scarlatti turned and walked back into the apartment. O’Rourke picked up on the angry signal and tried to figure out what he might have done to upset her. He was almost always late, so it couldn’t be that. He followed her down the hallway and into the kitchen.
“Liz, are you all right?”
Scarlatti did not respond. She stirred the pot of noodles boiling on the stove.
Michael grabbed her by the shoulders and turned her around. O’Rourke saw the tears in her eyes and tried to put his arms around her, but she backed away.
“What’s wrong?”
“You have no idea, do you?” Scarlatti asked with a voice that was far from steady.
O’Rourke looked at her and shook his head.
“I can’t believe you don’t know.” She started to shake her head back and forth, wiping the tears from her cheeks. “I’ll tell you what’s wrong, Michael. You’re a congressman, and if you haven’t noticed lately, there’s a group of people that are going around killing politicians and you happen to know who they are.” She shook her head at him and took a deep breath. “Well, despite knowing there are people out there who would like to kill you, you decide to walk right down the center of Pennsylvania Avenue in front of thousands of people. Not only did you do that, but you didn’t even have the courtesy to call and tell me.” Liz paused again and stared at O’Rourke.
O’Rourke looked down at her big, brown eyes and thought to himself, God, I don’t need this right now. The only thing that kept him from verbalizing it was that he knew she was right.
“I was sitting in the newsroom, and someone ran up to my desk and told me you were on TV. The next thing I knew, the commentator is saying that no one else would walk in the procession because the FBI thought it was too dangerous. I sat there for twenty minutes of hell.” Scarlatti stared at him as she tried to stop crying. O’Rourke went to step forward, but she put out her hand. “No, I’m not finished yet. I sat there praying that nothing would happen to you. Pictures of Basset getting his head blown off kept flashing across my mind. All I could think of was that I was going to lose you.” She broke down and began to sob into her hands.
O’Rourke stepped forward and tried to wrap his arms around her. She pushed him away and walked to the other side of the kitchen, trying to gain some composure. “Michael, you have no idea how much I love you.” She looked up at the ceiling and paused. “Just last night you told me you never wanted to lose me. Well, how in the hell do you think I feel? Do you think I want to lose you? Did it ever occur to you to pick up the phone and let me know what was going on? Did you ever stop and think about me today . . . about how I was feeling, wondering if someone was going to shoot you? How would you feel if it was me? How would you feel if I died? That would be it, Michael. Our future together would be gone and none of our dreams would be realized. We would never have the chance to have children and raise them, nothing. Damn it, Michael, this is my life, too!”
O’Rourke moved across the room and grabbed her. She tried to move away again, but he held on and pulled her into his chest. He whispered into her ear, “Honey, I’m sorry. I should have called, but I was never in danger.”
“How can you say you were never in danger. It’s been open season on politicians for the last week. They could have easily—”
Michael put his finger over her lips. “I know who they are, Liz . . . they would never do anything to harm me.”
The sun had risen again, and down in the subbasement of the White House a Secret Service agent opened an obscure door for Stu Garret. The president’s chief of staff walked in and sat down next to another Secret Service agent. Garret grabbed a pair of headphones and put them on as he looked up at the bank of monitors. President Stevens was standing in front of the fireplace in the Oval Office waiting for his breakfast appointment. A moment later, the door opened and Senator Olson entered the room. The president walked over and shook his guest’s hand. “Good morning, Erik.” Garret could hear them talk as if he were standing right next to the two men.
President Stevens led Olson over to a small table that had been set for breakfast, and the two men sat down. A steward entered the room and started to serve the meal. Senator Olson received a bowl of oatmeal with a side of brown sugar and a halved grapefruit, while the president received his usual bowl of Post Toasties with skim milk and a cup of fruit.
The steward poured both men a cup of coffee and left the room. The president dabbed the corner of his mouth with a napkin and said, “Erik, I would like you to know that I’m happy you’ve made the effort to come see me, especially in light of the current situation and the poor working relationship between our two parties.”
Olson nodded his head, signaling a frustrated understanding. “I’m glad you’ve agreed to see me, sir. I know these are hectic times for you.”
“They’re hectic for all of us.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” Olson sighed. “That is why I’m here this morning. The situation we are confronted with is bigger than partisan politics.” Olson stopped as if he were searching for the right words to use. “I am very concerned about what might happen if certain members of my party propose that we implement some of the things this group is asking for.”
The president raised an eyebrow at the comment. “Considering the philosophical tenets of your party, and the stress that we are all under, I can see where that might become a possibility, one that I would not welcome.”
“Neither would I, sir.” Olson glanced down at his oatmeal and then at the president.
The president nodded, implying to Olson that he should continue.
“Last Friday we started a new chapter in our country’s history, one that is potentially very dangerous. The idea that one small group can dictate, through violence, the policies of this country runs completely against all of the democratic principles upon which our nation was founded. These acts of terrorism absolutely and emphatically cannot be tolerated if we want to leave a civilized and democratic nation for future generations of Americans.”
The senator paused for a second, then continued, “As you said earlier, the relations between our parties have been very strained as of late. Much of that has to do with the recent fight over your budget. It is my feeling that we must put those differences aside and move forward with a unified front. There will be some compromises that will have to be reached, but the important thing is that we cannot, for a minute, entertain the idea of appeasing these terrorists.”
President Stevens leaned back in his chair. “I agree. Appeasement is out of the question. That has been my official position from the outset. It does, however, worry me that you think certain members of your party may be willing to exploit this situation for personal and political gain. What do you propose our course of action to be?”
“I think we need to bring the leaders of both parties together and discuss what needs to be changed in your budget to guarantee a swift and resounding passage through both the
House and the Senate.” Olson placed both elbows on the table and waited for the response.
“Erik, I had enough votes to get my budget passed before this whole debacle started. I’m not so sure I need to change it at all.”
Olson looked straight into the president’s eyes. “Sir, if your budget was put to a vote today, it wouldn’t stand a chance of getting out of the House. Koslowski and Basset are gone, and these assassinations have scared the hell out of the remaining congressmen. I’ve heard rumors that a few of them are contemplating quitting.” Olson paused to let his comments sink in. “The only thing that will get your budget passed is a strong, unified front from both parties, and that means some deals will have to be struck. I’m not saying that drastic changes need to be made, only that you will have to meet us halfway.”
The president nodded his head positively. The proposal was beginning to make more sense. The two statesmen continued to discuss the formation of their new alliance, while several floors beneath the meeting the wheels were spinning in Garret’s head. This might be the perfect way out, he thought to himself. Show a unified front with the president standing in the middle, holding both parties together. The public would eat it up. Stevens would look stronger than ever. His approval rating would go through the roof, and no one from either party would be able to challenge him for a second term. And that meant Garret could have any position—secretary of state, secretary of defense, whatever he wanted.
McMahon entered Director Roach’s office ten minutes late for their seven-thirty meeting. “Sorry, Brian, I got tied up trying to untangle a dispute, a dispute that I don’t have the time, energy, or political clout to deal with.”
Roach was sitting at the conference table in his office. He had stacks of files laid out in an orderly manner in front of him. He preferred the large work surface of the conference table to his desk. McMahon plopped down in a chair at Roach’s end of the table.
Roach had a feeling that whatever was bothering McMahon was about to be dumped in his lap. “What’s the problem, Skip?”
“The problem is that no one from the president to Nance to the secretary of defense to the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, no one, and I mean no one, is cooperating in letting us take a look at the Special Forces personnel files.”
“Why?”
“In short, Brian . . . they’re in the business of trusting no one.” McMahon shook his head several times. “I suppose they think we’re going to walk in the front door of the Pentagon with a hundred agents and start rifling through their top-secret files. Whatever their reasons are, I don’t care. I need to start looking at those files, whether the brass is paranoid or not. I’ll work in conjunction with them, and I’ll try to step on as few toes as possible, but we have to be given access.”
Roach nodded. “I’ll look into it this morning and hopefully have an answer to you by this afternoon. What else do you have for me?”
McMahon handed his boss two files. “These are the ballistics and autopsy reports for Basset. I received them late last night.”
“Anything unexpected?”
“One interesting point. The guys down in the lab are pretty sure the bullet was loaded with nitroglycerin.”
The director’s eyes opened wider. “Really?”
“Yep, it’s a pretty sure way to make sure one shot does the job, I suppose.”
“How does a person go about getting their hands on a nitro-tipped bullet?”
“We’re looking into that right now. I’ve got our ballistics people talking to the people over at ATF, and they’re trying to put together a list of people who dabble in stuff like this. They’re obviously illegal in the U.S., but some of the guys in the lab seem to think there might be some small manufacturers abroad who do work like this.”
Roach closed the ballistics report and placed it on top of a pile of files for later reading. “Interesting; you may want to bring the CIA in on this. They’ve got a much better handle on the international side of this stuff than the ATF does.”
“I’ve already set the wheels in motion, which brings me to my next question.” McMahon paused while he shifted in his chair. “I would like to borrow Irene Kennedy from the CIA for a while.”
“You mean Stansfield’s expert on terrorism?”
“Exactly.”
Roach wrote himself a note. “I’ll call Stansfield as soon as we’re done. I don’t think it’ll be a problem.”
“Good.”
It was almost noon when Garret left the Oval Office to retrieve something from his office. The morning had been productive, and with the help of Olson, the coalition was coming together faster than expected. All politicians, regardless of party affiliation, were scared, and the idea of strength in numbers was appealing. Garret entered his office and started sucking on a cigarette. Several minutes and another cigarette later, Mike Nance entered and closed the door behind him.
Nance saw the smile on Garret’s face and asked, “What are you so excited about?”
“I’ll tell you in a minute. What did you want to see me about?”
“I received a phone call last night from a friend . . . a friend who says he would like to sit down with us and discuss our options.”
“Who would that friend be?”
“Arthur,” responded Nance in a lowered tone.
Garret thought about it for a minute. “Did he say what it was about?”
“He doesn’t usually like to talk about things over the phone. He only said that he would like us to meet him at his estate tonight for dinner.”
Garret shook his head. He wanted to meet Arthur, but tonight was out of the question. “Can’t do it, and neither can you. The president is going to read a prepared statement along with Senator Olson and several of both parties’ bigwigs tonight at eight.” Garret stopped to see if the news would elicit any emotion from his calm friend. To Garret’s slight frustration, Nance’s expression didn’t change.
“The president is going to announce that he’s holding a closed-door summit at Camp David this weekend. He’s inviting the leadership from both parties. Senator Olson offered the olive branch this morning and we jumped all over it. They’re going to back the president in a show of unity against these terrorists and work together to pass his budget through the House and Senate.”
“What are they asking for in return?”
“They’re going to ask for a few changes in the budget, but the bottom line is we’re going to come out of this deal looking like the great unifiers. Stevens’s approval rating will go through the roof.”
“That’s assuming you can keep all of these egos satisfied.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know, it’s not going to be easy, but considering where we were twenty-four hours ago, this is a godsend.” Garret looked hard at Nance. “Don’t ruin this for me yet, I need the energy to get through the day. It’s going to be a long one.”
Nance cracked a thin smile. “What would you like me to tell our friend?”
Garret thought about the response. “Tell him we’ll try to set it up for Saturday night. There’s a remote chance we might be able to sneak away from Camp David, but we can’t count on it.”
Ann Moncur had announced to the press, just after 1 P.M., that the president would be addressing the nation along with the majority and minority leaders of the House and the Senate at 8 P.M. Instead of holding the meeting in the drab White House pressroom, Hopkinson had convinced Garret and the president to hold it in the ornate and stately East Room. They would stand where the coffins had been just one day earlier. Hopkinson had told them the symbolism would not be missed by the press, especially after he spoon-fed it to several reporters who owed him favors.
The president would be compared to the Phoenix, the legendary bird that rose out of the fiery ashes, stronger and more pure. The parallel would be drawn that the president, despite the trials and tribulations suffered over the past week, was rebounding as a stronger and better leader.
Hopkinson snickered to himself as he felt the
rush and excitement that he got from manipulating public opinion. The media was already present and impatiently waiting for the new coalition to be unveiled. Copies of the president’s speech had already been distributed, and most of the reporters were reading it over. Hopkinson stood in the doorway of the side entrance to the room, and at exactly 8 P.M., he signaled the producers to go live. A moment later, the president entered the room with the ranking members of both parties following closely behind. The president took his place behind the podium, and the party leaders fell in behind, providing the intended backdrop.
With the look of a general about to go into battle, Stevens started his speech. “Good evening, my fellow Americans. This past week has been a difficult one for our country. Our nation has lost some of its finest leaders. We have lost four men who gave everything they had to their country . . . our country. I would ask you, once again, to please keep these men and their families in your prayers.” The president paused and bowed his head briefly.
