by Vince Flynn
Michael looked at his grandfather, but said nothing. While the two O’Rourkes were locked in an icy stare, Coleman looked on. He cleared his throat and said, “You two can sort this out later. Right now we have a much bigger problem on our hands.” With raised eyebrows Coleman asked, “Who has decided to join the fight?”
Nance sat across the coffee table from Arthur as the fire burned brightly, casting a dark shadow of their figures against the far wall of the large study. They were both smiling, holding their warm snifters of cognac gently in their hands. The grandfather clock in the far corner started its first of twelve chimes, and Nance swirled the glass under his nose. They were both wearing their standard dark Brooks Brothers suits. Nance took a light sip and let it rest on his palate before swallowing. “The FBI has no idea,” said Nance. “But the president has ordered the CIA and the NSA to get involved in the investigation.”
Arthur lowered his glass and raised an eyebrow. “Really . . . that surprises me. How did you advise him?”
“I said nothing. Stu is trying to get him to rethink the situation, but he’s having a hard time getting him to calm down. He’s extremely upset about Olson.”
Arthur tilted his head back and reflected for a moment. “I don’t think it will affect us. After tomorrow we will be done.” Arthur smelled his cognac but did not drink it. “How is Garret holding up?”
“He’s nervous.”
Arthur raised his left eyebrow. “Please, don’t tell me he’s feeling guilty.”
“No, he says he doesn’t care what we do just so long as he isn’t caught.”
Arthur smiled and said, “I read him right from the beginning. He’ll keep his mouth shut.”
“If he doesn’t have a nervous breakdown in the process.”
“Don’t worry, after tomorrow he can relax, and we’ll both have what we want. Remind Mr. Garret to push the president toward taking a tougher stance against these terrorists. It will help him look better in the polls. The people are yearning for security right now, and after one more assassination they’ll greet a suspension of rights with open arms.” Arthur gracefully stood and opened the cherrywood humidor on the table, offering a cigar to Nance. “Let’s step out on the veranda and continue this conversation over a nice cigar, some good cognac, and a majestic view.” The two stood, gently cradling their snifters, and moved from the study into the dark night.
Tuesday Evening, Fairfax, Virginia
Congressman Burt Turnquist’s century-old, plantation-style house sat on a beautiful two-and-ahalfacre, wooded lot in an exclusive but low-key neighborhood. A single narrow, winding road cut through the rolling hills with no streetlights to show the way. In late fall, darkness fell on the Eastern seaboard around 5:30 P.M. The moon was finishing a cycle and was showing only a slight sliver of white. The towering old trees and a lack of moonlight gave the neighborhood a deep, dark look.
The congressman was in his second-floor study, feeling alone and isolated. His wife was on a business trip out of town and wouldn’t be back until tomorrow. His closest colleague had been blown to bits the previous afternoon, and he had four complete strangers standing watch over him. In all his years as a United States congressman, he had never felt threatened. Even after Downs, Koslowski, and Fitzgerald were killed, he thought he was safe. Turnquist didn’t tell anyone other than his wife, but he could understand why someone would want to kill them. He had thought about it many times since arriving in Washington eighteen years earlier. In short, they were not good men. They had their petty personal agendas and were more concerned with holding on to their positions of power than doing what was right. Year after year they said they were for benevolent change, and then behind the closed doors of their committees they blocked the very reforms they had espoused while running for reelection.
Turnquist was not sad to see them gone, but Erik Olson was a different story. Olson was a good friend. They had fought so many battles together, working behind the scenes trying to bring the two parties to a middle ground, Olson in the Senate and Turnquist in the House. Olson had been a source of strength, always helping him steer a safe course through the often dangerous game of politics, prodding him not to give up, advising him on professional as well as personal issues.
Turnquist had warned Olson against helping the president form the new bipartisan coalition in the wake of the assassinations. Turnquist told him that although the deaths of Koslowski, Fitzgerald, Downs, and Basset were a tragedy, maybe some good could come from them. Maybe they could finally pass the reforms they had worked so hard for. The always principled Olson told Turnquist there was no room for anarchy in a democracy. Turnquist had reminded his friend of the obvious historical fact that America had come into existence through a bloody revolution.
Turnquist looked down at his journal and struggled to record his thoughts. He was trying to think of what to say at Olson’s funeral. Writer’s block seized him, and he looked out the window, wishing his wife were home. He couldn’t see the U.S. marshal standing watch in his front yard, but he knew he was there. They had guarded him day and night for over a week, and the congressman couldn’t decide if they made him feel secure or nervous.
Four U.S. marshals were currently on watch at the Turnquist house. They were two hours into a twelve-hour watch that had started at 5 P.M. Three of the four marshals were outside: one by the back door, one by the front porch, and the third sitting in a sedan at the end of the congressman’s long driveway. The fourth marshal was posted inside the house at the foot of the stairs that led to the second floor. They were more alert than they had been during the previous week’s watch. The fiery deaths of the four Secret Service agents the day before reminded them that they were also targets.
The neighborhood that the congressman lived in hadn’t changed much in the last fifty years. The lots were woodsy and large. Separating the congressman’s land from his neighbor’s behind him was a small creek that ran between the two properties. Just on the other side of the creek, about fifty yards from the house, a man peered out from behind a tree with a pair of night-vision goggles. The goggles cut through the dark forest and focused in on the marshal standing guard by Turnquist’s back door. The ominous watcher was covered from head to toe in black, and his face was painted with camouflage makeup. Slung across his back was an MP-5 submachine gun with a twelve-inch silencer attached to the barrel, and gripped firmly in his hands was a 7mm Magnum sniper’s rifle, also with a silencer affixed to the barrel. He whispered into the microphone hanging in front of his mouth, “Omega, this is Alpha. I’m moving into position, over.” Holding the rifle across his chest and pointed upward, he stepped out from behind the tree and moved laterally until he put another tree between himself and the marshal standing guard by the back door.
Alpha moved across the forest floor, gliding between the underbrush with a cautious, catlike manner. When he reached the creek, he put one foot slowly into the water, then followed it with the other, checking his footing before transferring his weight from one foot to the other. Upon reaching the other side he scanned the ground for any fallen branches or twigs and pulled himself up the eroded bank. Pausing behind a tree, he checked the position of the guard and then his watch. Methodically, he glided from tree to tree, carefully picking his path. About twenty yards from the edge of Turnquist’s yard, the assassin got down on his belly and started to crawl. He picked out a pine tree at the edge of the yard and slid under it, the low-slung branches of the tree making his presence impossible to detect. Alpha nestled up against the trunk and checked his watch. It was 7:19 P.M. The assassin pulled his night-vision goggles down around his neck and waited. If the marshals stayed with their routine, they would be rotating posts in about ten minutes.
Out in front of the house, the sniper’s partner lay in the ditch across the street from the end of Turnquist’s driveway. Covering his black tactical jumpsuit was a sniper’s blanket. The strange piece of clothing consisted of a mesh netting with strips of camouflage cloth attached to it. It ha
d taken him over forty minutes to crawl into position, slowly squirming through the tall grass and bushes on his stomach, his MP-5 cradled between his chin and elbows. He poked his head up slightly and moved the branch of a small bush in front of him. His face was painted with dark streaks of green and black makeup. Through squinted eyes, he looked at the white sedan sitting at the end of the driveway. Crouching back into the ditch, he pulled the sniper’s blanket off his body, wrapped it into a tight ball, and placed it in his backpack.
He checked all of his equipment one last time, and then, just after 7:30 P.M., the sedan across the street backed up the driveway to the house. Checking the road quickly, Omega jumped to his feet and darted across the road. When he reached the other side, he jumped into a clump of bushes not more than ten feet from where the car had been. While taking deep breaths to keep his heart rate low, he said, “Alpha, this is Omega, I’m in position, over.”
The car returned less than a minute later with a different driver behind the wheel. Omega squatted on one knee and blinked away a drop of sweat that was forming on his brow. The muzzle of his silencer was extended to the far end of the bush, pointed straight at the head of the man behind the wheel of the car. Only a thin green leaf concealed the lethal black cylinder. The contrast between the dark green and black paint on his face and the whites of his eyes gave him a reptilian appearance.
Under the pine tree in the backyard Alpha checked his watch again, and then, reaching forward, he flipped the protective caps off the rifle’s sight. He hugged the butt of the rifle close to his cheek and eased his right eye in behind the sight. Moving his hands slightly, he placed the head of the man standing watch at the back door in the middle of the sight’s crosshairs. The plan was to wait another minute or so, giving the marshals ample time to check in and get relaxed. The man by the back door brought his radio up to his mouth and said something. The sniper was too far away to hear, but he knew what was said. When the guard lowered his radio back to his side, the sniper whispered into his headset, “Omega, this is Alpha. I’m ready to start the game, over.”
Alpha flipped the safety switch into the off position and brought the sniper’s trigger back one notch. The crosshairs marked a lethal intersection on the temple of the marshal’s head. The killer squeezed the trigger and a spitting noise popped from the end of the thick, black silencer. Without waiting to see the outcome of the shot, the sniper let go of the rifle and rolled to his right, out from under the low branches of the pine tree, leaving the rifle behind. He didn’t need to check to see if his bullet had hit the mark. He knew it had.
Springing up from the ground, he broke into a sprint for the right side of the house, whispering into his headset, “One down, three to go.” Reaching over his head, he pulled the silenced MP-5 off his back and flipped off the safety. Nearing the front corner of the house, he slowed for a step and then spun around the edge of the porch. Dropping to one knee he swept the gun from left to right, searching for his next target.
The movement of the black shape coming around the corner caught the attention of the marshal standing watch at the foot of the porch steps, and he instinctively reached for his gun. Before he could get his hand to his hip, the assassin fired three quick rounds, two hitting the marshal in the face and the third striking him in the neck, the impact of the bullets throwing his head backward and sending the rest of his body with it. With his machine gun aimed at the front door, the killer ran toward the man he had just killed and whispered into his headset, “Two down, two to go.” Upon reaching the marshal, he opened the dead man’s jacket and yanked the radio from his belt. Ducking under the edge of the porch, he waited and listened to the marshal’s radio.
At the end of the driveway the man in the bushes leapt forward and unloaded four quick bursts into the driver’s seat of the sedan. The window broke into thousands of pieces, the bullets slamming into the side of the marshal’s head. Without pause, the hired killer approached the car, shoved the barrel through the shattered window, and pumped a final round into the driver’s head. Turning on the balls of his feet, the killer sprinted up the driveway toward the house. With the adrenaline rushing through his blood he barked into his headset, “Three down, one to go.”
Five seconds later, he joined his partner at the foot of the porch, his breathing controlled but heavy. Alpha was listening to the marshal’s radio to see if the man inside the house had been alerted. He pointed and sent Omega to check the windows to the right of the front door, and he went to check the ones on the left. They peered over the railing of the porch and looked through the windows.
Omega saw him first, sitting at the foot of the stairs reading a magazine. “I’ve got number four,” he whispered into his mike. They met at the stairs of the porch, and Omega pointed at the window. “It’s a clear shot from the first window on the right.”
Alpha nodded and said, “I’ll crawl under the window and take up position on the other side. When I give you the signal, pump two rounds into the window, and I’ll take him out.” Omega nodded his confirmation and they started up the steps. Alpha got down on his stomach and crawled to the far side of the window. Switching his gun from his right side to his left, he peeked through the window to make sure his target hadn’t moved. Stepping away from the window he gave his partner a nod and hugged the butt of the MP-5 tight against his cheek. Omega stepped back and pointed the muzzle of his silencer toward the middle of the tall window and fired two shots. A split second later, Alpha stepped into the new opening and trained his gun on the startled marshal. Pulling the trigger, Alpha sent three bullets crashing into the center of the man’s head. With robotlike precision the two men slammed fresh clips into their weapons and stepped through the jagged window frame. They trained their guns in opposite directions as they moved to the foot of the stairs. Footsteps sounded from upstairs, and they looked up at the ceiling.
A deep voice called out from the top of the stairs, “Is everything all right down there?”
Without pause, Alpha called back, “Sorry, sir, I dropped a glass. Can I get you anything?”
“No, that’s all right, I’ll come down. I’m getting a little hungry.” Turnquist started down the staircase, and Alpha pushed his partner back and out of the way.
When the congressman reached the middle landing, he turned and froze, staring at the man dressed in black. Alpha squeezed the trigger and the barrel jumped. A stream of bullets popped from the end of the silencer and slammed into Congressman Turnquist. The impact of the bullets sent the congressman reeling backward and into the wall, where he hung for a moment, pinned by the bullets slamming into his chest. The assassin took his finger off the trigger and Turnquist’s body slid to the ground, leaving a bright red streak on the white wall.
26
AT ABOUT 7:55 P.M., A FAIRFAX POLICE SQUAD rolled through Congressman Turnquist’s neighborhood. It was part of his regular patrol route, but since the recent flurry of assassinations his duties had shifted from spending his nights writing speeding tickets and nailing drunk drivers to checking up on the various congressmen and senators who lived in his part of the city. He was getting to know most of the marshals who were assigned to protecting Congressman Turnquist and looked forward to stopping by every hour or so to talk with whoever was sitting in the car at the end of the driveway. As he approached the white sedan, his headlights passed over the car. No one was visible in the front seat, so he shined his spotlight on the car. The police officer put his squad in park and got out, thinking that whoever was on watch must have fallen asleep. He could appreciate how boring their jobs must be. There were nights when after a full thermos of coffee he could barely stay awake, and he was on the move. These poor guys sat in one place all night.
He strode up to the window and looked in. Just as he’d thought, the marshal was lying across the front seat. The cop brought his flashlight up and turned it on. It took him a second to process what he was seeing. His eyes opened wide as he froze in shock at the sight of the bloody body. After severa
l seconds he grasped the severity of the situation and ran back to his squad to call the dispatcher.
Upon receiving the call from the officer at Turnquist’s house, the dispatcher sent two additional squads and an ambulance to the scene. Her next call was to the Fairfax police chief, who directed her to call the FBI. Within two minutes of the patrolman’s finding the marshal’s body, Skip McMahon was on the phone asking for a chopper. He came into the task force’s main conference room and started telling agents whom to call and what to do. Then, grabbing Jennings and Wardwell, he headed for the roof of the Hoover Building.
Once in the elevator, he pointed at Wardwell and said, “Get ahold of the Fairfax Police Department and have them patch you through to the officer at Turnquist’s. Kathy, call the marshals’ office and make sure they know what’s going on and then . . . no, call the marshals’ office second. First call the Virginia State Patrol and tell them if they spot any cars with multiple males, twenty-five to forty-five, to pull them over for questioning and approach with extreme caution. Have them pass the word on to all the local police departments.” Both agents pulled their digital phones out and started punching away at the number pads. By the time they reached the roof, the blades on the helicopter were just starting to spin.
