by Joseph Flynn
“That the inspiration and the very nature of the Second Amendment is defensive. It’s meant to protect our security collectively and individually. I’ve never heard of any Constitutional scholar who claimed that the right to bear arms is a license to make war against the government. The Founders had only recently fought for the freedom to establish their new government. It’s just plain crazy to think they’d institute a right to bring down their own creation. Likewise, it’s madness to think the Constitution gives anyone the right to make war against his coworkers, against schoolchildren or against people sitting in a movie theater or shopping at a mall.”
“You’re talking about assault weapons now,” Ellie said.
“Assault weapons or weapons of war: They’re the same thing. Our country has two hundred years of history without civilians owning weapons of war. During that time nobody ever complained that their rights under the Second Amendment were in jeopardy. Then, in the late 1970s, a gun manufacturer thought it would be cool to make weapons of war for people he characterized as ‘military wannabes.’”
“People who could pretend they were going to war without facing the life-or-death risks of the real thing?” Ellie asked.
“I’ll leave the psychological profiling to the professionals,” McGill said.
“So do you think you or anyone else can change the way people think about guns?”
“We have to. Allowing the wholesale bloodshed to continue is intolerable. We have to change people’s thinking first and then their mood. We have to make Congress irrelevant until it has no choice but to be responsive. If the overwhelming majority of Americans reach certain conclusions about the places, uses, and types of firearms we’ll permit in our society and inscribe those judgments in legislation, then those laws will be respected and obeyed.”
“And do you think your gun death counters will be a good first step?”
“I do. People will see the terrible toll of the current madness rise every day; they won’t be allowed to hold their noses. There’s one more idea that I’d like to mention.”
“What’s that?” Ellie asked.
“You know that old celebrity game, Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon? It says that any actor in Hollywood can be linked through his or her film roles to a Kevin Bacon movie within six steps. I’d like every adult American to think of how many steps it would take to link him or her to a murder, a suicide or a wounding caused by gunshots.” McGill paused, a look of regret on his face. “My bet, for most of us, it wouldn’t take more than four.”
Ellie knew that would be a good place to end and signaled the videographer.
She shook McGill’s hand and Hugh Collier stepped forward to do the same.
“We’ll run your interview with Ms. Booker at nine p.m. Eastern Time, sir,” Collier told McGill. “That will give it the widest exposure across the country.”
Though she already knew the answer, Ellie asked McGill, “You were shot in the line of duty as a Chicago cop, weren’t you?”
“Just barely, but yeah.”
“Still, you must have thoughts of what might have been.”
“You mean dying, not seeing my children grow up, never meeting the president or marrying her?”
“All of that,” Ellie said.
McGill told her, “Not a day goes by that I don’t think of those things.”
Ellie walked McGill to the elevator bank. Elspeth summoned a car and made sure it was unoccupied by assassins. McGill asked her to hold it for a minute. He led Ellie a few feet away and spoke in a quiet voice.
“The interview was good material for you?”
“You know it was.” The producer knew McGill was going to ask her for something. She almost felt he’d set a trap for her. Probably for Hugh Collier, too. She reminded herself that she could never underestimate this guy. “What is it you want, Mr. McGill.”
“I have one more idea. You can decide if it will fly.”
“What’s your idea?”
“You know how TV networks report war casualties? Why is it you don’t report the number of gunshot deaths that happen every day in the United States? That’s the war we’re fighting at home.”
“You’d like us to do a daily report?”
“Yes, the number of fatalities that day and the cumulative number for the year. Doesn’t have to be more than that.”
“But we could run pictures of some victims, note their ages, give capsule bios.”
“You could do that, too,” McGill said.
“Don’t let people hold their noses?”
“Exactly.”
When McGill followed Elspeth out of Ellie Booker’s building he saw Welborn Yates and Abra Benjamin leaning against a government-issue sedan parked at the curb. Each of them had their arms crossed over their chests, a defensive posture for sure, but McGill had seen them exchanging what he’d guessed was light banter. So they weren’t yet chums but at least they were keeping things cordial.
They brought themselves to full upright when they saw him, not exactly coming to attention but showing a measure of respect. Still, McGill was glad that Welborn no longer reflexively started to salute upon seeing him. Simple courtesy was good enough for him.
Welborn and Benjamin looked at each other as if to decide who should speak first. Welborn deferred and Benjamin proceeded. “Mr. McGill, I’ve been given the lead on the FBI’s part of the investigation into the death of Jordan Gilford.”
McGill asked, “Who delegated that authority to you?”
“Deputy Director DeWitt.”
“Good.” He got along with DeWitt better than the gloomy FBI director, Jeremiah Haskins. He asked Benjamin, “Have you come to confer or ask questions?”
“Both. I’ve just spoken with Captain Bullard of Metro PD. She gave me copies of the photos the Park Police passed on to her. She brought me up to date on your recent conversation with her. I’ve assigned special agents in Maryland and Virginia to look into the idea that the vehicle that was parked in front of Abel Mays’ SUV might have been compacted.”
“Always nice to have plenty of manpower working an investigation,” McGill said.
Benjamin wasn’t sure if he was twitting her, but decided there was no advantage in making an unfavorable inference. “We’ll have all the people we need, I assure you.”
McGill told her, “I’ve been thinking about that situation, scrapping that car that was in front of Mays’ vehicle.”
“Yes?” Benjamin asked.
“If the man who killed Jordan Gilford had as his first concern leaving no electronic trail, he probably had another car close to wherever he scrapped the first one. He gets in the second car and drives …” McGill looked at Welborn, passing the conjectural baton to him.
Welborn picked up his cue without missing a beat. “Maybe he drives all the way home or maybe he scraps the second car, too, and uses a third vehicle, say a truck, to get home. In any case, we look for security cameras near any scrapyard where a car was crushed on Saturday afternoon and see if we can find someone who resembles the driver in the Park Police photos.”
McGill nodded. “That or the guy lives far away, maybe even outside the country, and wanted to get away as fast as possible. So we look at security footage from all the airports from, say, Philadelphia to Richmond to see if we can find a match for our guy in the car.”
Benjamin asked, “And by we you mean?”
“You, the FBI, of course,” McGill said. “Is there anything else, Special Agent Benjamin?”
“I believe Captain Yates has something to tell you, Mr. McGill. I’d like to hear what that is.”
“Welborn?”
“No problem for me.” He looked at Benjamin and offered a polite smile. “Celsus and I went to Mrs. Gilford’s home and found everything locked up tight. There were no signs that anyone had broken in, but we’re not specialists in that area and if someone who was good at sneaking into people’s houses had been there, we might have missed it. Celsus stayed on the premises to await Mrs. Gilford’s
return home.” He checked his watch. “That should be any minute now. Maybe she’ll notice something out of place.”
“And maybe some FBI techs should give the house a once over. Something might have been taken or listening devices might have been installed,” Benjamin said.
“Good point,” McGill said. “I don’t think Ms. Gilford would object, if your people are polite.” He told Benjamin about the two hard-chargers from DOD seizing Jordan Gilford’s computer and files.
“My people will mind their manners,” Benjamin said.
McGill said, “Good.” He asked Welborn. “Is Celsus going to stay with Zara?”
Welborn nodded.
Without crediting Rockelle Bullard, or speaking exclusively of Welborn’s safety, McGill mentioned that the people responsible for having Jordan Gilford killed might be desperate enough to target other federal employees, namely an FBI special agent and an Air Force captain. Both Welborn and Benjamin looked mildly surprised by the idea of personal jeopardy, but they adjusted their thinking quickly.
People caught in bad situations weren’t known for impulse control.
Welborn and Benjamin could be shot and killed as easily as anyone else.
McGill told Benjamin, “I was going to ask Captain Yates to visit the Pentagon to speak with Hume Drummond, the man in the Inspector General’s office at the Pentagon who hired Mr. Gilford. I’d like to hear what Mr. Drummond had in mind when he hired Gilford. Captain Yates has the security clearance to hear anything Drummond might have to say. How high is your clearance, Special Agent Benjamin.”
“I’m not supposed to say,” she told McGill.
He grinned. “Well, that sounds like it might qualify. Why don’t the two of you go to see Mr. Drummond? You can watch each other’s backs.”
Benjamin looked at Welborn. “How’s your marksmanship?”
“As good as it gets.”
The special agent looked like she wanted Welborn to prove it.
But she saw McGill watching her.
“Can’t ask for more than that,” she said.
McGill nodded. “Good. Welborn, if any of the brass hats at the Pentagon give you or Special Agent Benjamin a hard time, call Galia Mindel. She’ll speak to the president and cooperation will be forthcoming.”
This time, Benjamin gave McGill a doubtful look.
He saw it and told her, “Take it as gospel, Special Agent.”
Chapter 16
J. Edgar Hoover Building — Washington, DC
Besides having an Andy Warhol serigraph of Chairman Mao on his office wall, Byron DeWitt exhibited certain other Sinophile tendencies. He had Chinese take-out delivered to his office for lunch. He ate the food using chopsticks. To prove his true-blue loyalty to the good old US of A, however, he would often listen to intercepts of meetings of the Politburo Standing Committee of the Communist Party of China provided by the NSA.
The director of national intelligence thought DeWitt might pick up nuances that other translators, even the native speakers, might miss. The DNI confided to FBI Director Haskins that he thought DeWitt was more than bilingual; he was bicerebral. He could think like both an American and a Chinese.
Had DeWitt been informed of this evaluation, he would have shaken his head.
At most, in his opinion, there was only a partial duality.
Of course, even that facility might provide a critical advantage.
That day, however, DeWitt was listening to Jerry Garcia not President Xi Jinping. He used the earbuds of his iPod Nano. Playing Grateful Dead albums through bookshelf speakers at FBI headquarters probably would have been taking one liberty too many. Nonetheless, the lyrics and music he’d listened to during his college days acted like a Zen koan for DeWitt. They demonstrated the inadequacy of logical reasoning to lead to enlightenment.
And when “Uncle John’s Band” played and Jerry sang the question to him, “Have you seen the light?” DeWitt did. At least, he thought he did. A cascade of facts rippled through his mind.
Senator Howard Hurlbert had been shot on the night of Saturday, January 12, 2013.
And when was Bahir Ben Kalil reported missing? DeWitt pulled that information up on his computer. Ben Kalil had been scheduled to arrive home in Amman, Jordan on Sunday, January 13, 2013. He never made it. The FBI was contacted by the Jordanian embassy on Monday, January 14, 2013.
Sonofagun. Looked like Hurlbert and Ben Kalil might have died within hours of one another. What else might they have had in common? The tide of revelation continued to swell. An anonymously sourced audio recording of Howard Hurlbert discussing the planned assassination of the president had been delivered to FBI headquarters and …
Tyler Busby was involved in the attempt to kill the president at Inspiration Hall and …
Busby had invited Representative Philip Brock to a pre-opening visit to Inspiration Hall and …
Henry Tillman, the bartender at The Constellation Club, had seen Brock having a series of quiet conversations with Hurlbert in the bar and …
Shit. The FBI had watched Brock for months without finding anything to link him to the assassination attempt. But …
Had the Bureau been watching Brock on the night Hurlbert had been killed?
Did Brock have any known connection to Bahir Ben Kalil?
Did Ben Kalil have any reason to want the president dead?
DeWitt had work to do. But now, at least, he stood a chance of finding answers to specific questions. He got up from his desk to do just that.
As he left his office, the Dead hit the opening notes of “Truckin’.”
The Pentagon — Arlington, Virginia
More than a dozen years after the 9/11 terrorists had crashed an airplane into the Pentagon, the Department of Defense felt secure enough to allow civilian tours of the building. More than 100,000 visitors a year took the opportunity to see the hub of the nation’s military might. They strolled almost a mile and a half through the buildings corridors, taking in displays illustrating the missions and accomplishments of the country’s five armed services.
Despite all that openness, Captain Welborn Yates, United States Air Force, Office of Special Investigations, and FBI Special Agent Abra Benjamin were denied admission at the first security checkpoint they approached. They’d asked to see Mr. Hume Drummond in the Inspector General’s office.
When queried if they had an appointment, they replied honestly that they did not.
“Think of it as a snap inspection,” Welborn told the officer in charge of the checkpoint.
Being a Marine, he’d didn’t see the humor.
Benjamin, however, seized the moment to ask Welborn, “Time to send up the Bat Signal?”
Welborn appreciated the jibe and grinned, but he didn’t miss the point.
He had to prove his clout to the special agent. The security guys, too. He took out his phone and called Galia Mindel and explained the situation in a voice loud enough for everyone within a twenty-foot radius to hear. He concluded the conversation with, “Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.”
He put his phone back in his pocket and still speaking loudly told Benjamin, “The chief of staff is speaking to the president right now. She assures me that within the next few minutes the secretary of defense or the highest civilian official currently on the premises will be here with an all-access VIP pass for us.”
Welborn saw the Marine officer pick up a phone.
He said, “You really don’t want to do that. You might not like your next posting.”
The Marine thought about that for a moment and put the phone down.
Five minutes later Welborn and Benjamin cleared the checkpoint in the company of the deputy secretary of defense and an Air Force major general. Benjamin was suitably impressed. In fact, as handsome as Welborn was and as closely connected to the Oval Office as he’d proven to be, she had a hard time not falling in love. Two things stopped her from doing that: He wore a wedding ring and he seemed like the kind of guy who’d take his vows seriously.
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Neither of which precluded her from becoming a really good friend.
One who’d be happy to engage in mutual backscratching.
Strictly in a professional sense, of course.
The deputy secretary said nothing to his unexpected guests except, “Please follow me.”
The Air Force general asked Welborn, “Aren’t you the OSI officer who cleared Colonel Carina Linberg of the adultery charge brought against her?”
“That was my first case, sir. It was resolved only when the accusation made against the colonel could no longer be sustained, after Captain Dexter Cowan, United States Navy, died.”
“I heard about that. He crashed his Viper, trying to ram the car in which you were riding.”
“Yes, sir. Mr. McGill’s driver, Leo Levy, deserves the credit for saving our lives.”
“You’re a modest man, Captain.”
“With much to be modest about, sir.”
The general laughed. “And yet you can call the White House, get the ear of the president and waltz right into the Pentagon when need be.” The general held up a hand. “No need to explain yourself. I just want to say I’m an old friend of Colonel Linberg’s. I appreciate what you did for her. If you need to stop in here again at a moment’s notice, just call me. We’ll keep things within our branch of the service.”
He handed Welborn a card with his name and phone number on it.
Major General Thomas Lunn.
“Thank you, sir, I’ll do that. If you see Ms. Linberg before I do, please give her my regards.”
With that exchange of military courtesy done, Welborn and Benjamin were left at Hume Drummond’s office. It was a large, well-appointed space. Turned out Drummond was the inspector general. Despite his eminent position and lavish surroundings, Drummond seemed anything but comfortable to see Welborn and Benjamin.
His discomfiture grew visibly when Welborn told him, “Special Agent Benjamin and I are here to talk about the death of Jordan Gilford, sir.”
The man looked as if he’d rather speak about his prostate troubles.
