Term Limits mr-1

by Vince Flynn

  For now, we have agreed to respect your decision to not share that information. I

  would hope that you would also understand our position and give us some time to run

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  these leads down before we pass our information on to you.” Everyone was silent while the two sides thought about the hand McMahon had just played.

  Garret was furious. Who in the fuck did this no-name agent think he was, coming into the Oval Office and denying the President information? Nance, on the other hand, admired the move. In light of the position he had just taken, they had no choice but to accept McMahon’s excuse. The maneuver had been planned by Roach and McMahon before they left the Hoover Building, and now it was the director’s turn. “Mr. President, I

  realize things were very tense and confusing last night, but during your speech you said the Bureau told you there was a good chance the letter was a piece of disinformation.” ‘I’ll take the blame for that,” Garret blurted out. “I was in charge of editing the speech and I

  missed it. Sorry.”

  Garret’s apology smacked of blatant insincerity. Roach looked at Garret for a moment and then back to the President. “You also quoted me as saying that I guaranteed the perpetrators would be caught and brought to justice.” Again, Garret fielded the question.

  “That was my fault also. I should have caught it. We meant it to sound more general, but it came out sounding like a direct quote. I apologize.”

  Roach nodded his head in a feigned acknowledgment of Garret’s apology.

  He knew they would lie. He just wanted to see how they would do it.

  Roach looked away from Garret.

  It was time to get down to important matters. “Sir, my main concern right now is not the authenticity of the letter; it is the security of the remaining five hundred and thirty-two Senators and Congressman.

  The letter clearly states that if these reforms are not acted on, this group will kill more politicians. They have even made a direct threat to you, sir. For now, we have to assume the letter is real and that they will strike again. We have to arrange for protection.” The

  President, Nance, and Garret nodded their heads in agreement. “I have spoken with

  Director Tracy of the Secret Service, and most of the chiefs of the metro-area police departments. We are meeting this afternoon to discuss additional security measures. The tab for this protection, sir, is going to be rather large. I am going to need you to authorize special funding.”

  “Don’t worry about the money. Whatever it costs will be taken care of.”

  The President waved his hand in the air emphasizing that money was the least of their concerns. “How are you planning on handling the security?”

  “Well, Director Tracy and I have agreed that initially we should concentrate on giving the best security to the senior-ranking members of both the House and the Senate. He and

  I are working on pulling agents out of the field so they can provide personal protection

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  for the ranking members. The Presidential security detail will not be weakened. If anything, Director Tracy is thinking about adding more agents. This afternoon, we will determine how many of the ranking members we can protect with just the agents from the

  FBI and Secret Service. When we run out of agents, we will have to start using local police officers for the protection of the less senior members. We are also looking at using

  Federal marshals, Treasury agents, and various military units. Director Tracy has also recommended that we shut down Lafayette Park and the streets surrounding the Capitol and the House and Senate office buildings. The White House is very secure, but the same cannot be said of the Capitol and the House and Senate office buildings.

  To bolster the security in and around the Capitol we are considering moving in a light armored division from the Army.” Garret scoffed and shook his head vigorously. “A light armored division? Are you talking just personnel or are you talking equipment also?”

  “Equipment and personnel,” Roach responded in an even tone. “You mean to tell me you’re going to surround the Capitol with tanks?”

  “No, with Humvees, armored personnel carriers, and Bradley fighting vehicles.”

  “Like I said, you’re going to surround the Capitol with tanks.”

  “No, light armored divisions don’t have tanks. That would be an armored division.”

  “I know the difference,” Garret said in a mocking tone. “But the average American doesn’t.” Garret looked to the President and said, “I think we’re going a little overboard here. We can’t have tanks driving down the streets of Washington, D.C. We’ll look like the fucking Chinese, for Christ’s sake.”

  The President paused while he digested Garret’s comments. “I agree with Stu. For now let’s try to keep things as normal looking as possible. I don’t want the press and the

  American people to think we’re panicking. Besides, these killers would have to be suicidal to try something at the Capitol.” Roach nodded his head in compliance and then went on. The meeting lasted for another ten minutes while Roach continued to give them a broad overview of the extra security measures.

  When he was done, the President walked them to the door and thanked them for coming. Roach and McMahon did not say a word until they climbed into the limo. Once the doors closed, Roach immediately started to shake his head in disapproval. He did not swear but wanted to. Roach liked to stay on a nice, even keel, while McMahon was just the opposite. “What a bunch of assholes.”

  “I take it you didn’t believe a word of their story,” Roach said.

  “Are you kidding me? He gets on national TV and announces to the country that he believes the letter is phony, but he won’t tell ‘the director of the FBI or the agent running the investigation where he got the information.

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  It’s a crock of shit.”

  “Why would he make it up if it’s obviously a lie? If he has any information, he will have to come forward with it.”

  “You’re damn right he will. If he doesn’t, we’ll hit him with a subpoena and an obstruction of justice charge. This is our baby, not the NSA’s or the CIA’s. This is domestic and it’s our jurisdiction,” McMahon said.

  “Yeah, that’s what worries me. They know they have to hand over what they’ve got.”

  Roach paused and looked out the window. “So, what are they up to?”

  “I have no idea. Politics is your department, but if they’re still proclaiming this letter is fake two days from now and they haven’t handed anything over to us, I’d get the Justice

  Department involved.”

  AFTER LEAVING HIS MEETING AT THE WHITE HOUSE, MCMAHON

  DROVE out to the CIA’s headquarters in Langley, Virginia, and picked up Dr. Kennedy.

  McMahon had asked her the previous evening to accompany him for the interview with Gus Mitchell, the former Delta Force commando. For the early part of the drive down to the FBI Academy, the conversation centered on the investigation and Kennedy’s theory of who the killers were. As Kennedy continued to articulate her points, McMahon couldn’t help but wonder where this woman had come from. What had possessed her to join one of the most exclusive communities in government? It was obvious that with her brains, understated savvy, and the way she carried herself, she could have entered any profession and been extremely successful. McMahon waited for a pause in the conversation.

  “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but how did you end up in the employment of the

  CIA?”

  Kennedy looked out the window of the government issue Ford and said, “My father used to work for the State Department. Throughout most of his career he was stationed in the Middle East. He married my mother, who was Jordanian, and I grew up in a bilingual household.” Kennedy looked over at McMahon. “There aren’t a lot of Americans who are fluent in Arabic and who understand the customs and history of the area.”

  McMahon nodded his understanding. “You
must have been a very highly sought after commodity.”

  “I suppose you could say that.” McMahon checked his side mirror and changed lanes.

  “You said your father used to work for the State Department. Is he retired?”

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  “No, he passed away.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” Kennedy clutched her purse with both hands.

  “Thank you.” She looked at McMahon. “It was a long time ago, almost twenty years.”

  Her eyes squinted while she thought about how long it had been.

  “It doesn’t seem like it happened that long ago.”

  “He must have been pretty young. How did he die? If you don’t mind me asking.”

  Kennedy shook her head. “He was stationed at our embassy in Beirut and was killed by a car bomb.”

  McMahon cringed. What a shitty way to go. “That must have been hard. You had to have been in your teens.”

  “Yeah, it wasn’t the best time of my life, but I have a lot to be thankful for. My mother and I are very close. I have a great brother and four-year-old son whom I

  absolutely adore.” Kennedy gave McMahon the smile of a proud parent. McMahon smiled back while the pieces fell into place. The motivation of losing a parent to terrorism was more than enough of a reason to devote one’s life to the fight against it.

  “What’s your little boy’s name?”

  “Tommy.” Kennedy fished a picture out of her purse and showed it to McMahon.

  “He’s a good-looking little fella. I assume he looks like his father.”

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  “Sore subject?”

  “The divorce was finalized about seven months ago. How about you, any wife or children?”

  “None that I know of,” McMahon said with a grin. “I was married once.

  It was a mistake. I was too young, I drank too much, and I was married to my job.”

  “The Bureau?” asked Kennedy. McMahon nodded.

  “Never found the time to remarry?”

  “Not with this job. I can barely take care of myself.”

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  “I read your file. It looks like you’ve been pretty busy over the years.” McMahon gave the young doctor a sideways glance.

  “You read my file?” Kennedy shrugged her shoulders. “I read a lot of files.”

  “So do I. I’ll have to make it a point to read yours when I have the chance.”

  Kennedy smiled. “Don’t waste your time. It’s pretty boring stuff.”

  “I’ll bet,” replied a grinning McMahon. A short while later they pulled up to the guard post at the FBI Academy. McMahon and Kennedy showed their identification and were admitted. McMahon drove the car through the large campus and parked in front of a small office building by the firearms range. Mitchell’s office was located on the first floor.

  When they arrived, Mitchell was sitting with his feet up on the desk, reading a magazine. He was wearing black combat boots and dark blue coveralls. Over the left breast of the coveralls, Instructor was embroidered in yellow, and across the back in large letters were the initials FBI. Mitchell jumped to his feet and said, “Skip, it’s great to see you. You don’t get down here enough, now that you’re a big shot.”

  McMahon shook Mitchell’s hand but ignored the friendly needling. He turned to

  Kennedy and said, “Gus, meet Dr. Irene Kennedy.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, Dr. Kennedy. You work at Langley, correct?”

  “Yes.” Kennedy smiled. “Please call me Irene.”

  “Irene it is.” Mitchell motioned for his guests to follow him.

  “There’s a small conference room down the hall.

  Let’s use that instead. My office is a little cramped for the three of us. Can I get either of you some coffee?” Mitchell looked to Kennedy first, as his early years as a Southern gentleman had taught him.

  “Please.” Kennedy brushed a strand of hair back behind her ear.

  “Skip?”

  “Sure.” Mitchell disappeared and Kennedy raised one of her eyebrows.

  McMahon noticed the expression and asked, “What?”

  “They are a unique breed, aren’t they?”

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  “Who?”

  “Commandos,” replied Kennedy. “You can spot them a mile away. It’s in their eyes.”

  “Really, I’ve never noticed.”

  “When we recruit them to be agents, we have to teach them how to mask their alertness.” McMahon was thinking about the doctor’s comment when Mitchell returned with three cups of coffee. The three settled into chairs and McMahon asked Mitchell, “How much do you know about what happened yesterday?”

  “Just what I’ve read in the papers and Irene’s theory.”

  “What did you think of it?”

  “Well, before I get into that, I’d like you to fill me in on the details. I usually don’t believe what I read in the papers.”

  “Neither do I.” McMahon set his coffee down. “It all started with Senator Fitzgerald.

  His neck was broken by someone using their bare hands. There were no signs of a struggle, no bruises on his neck or anywhere else. Our pathologist tells me it was done from behind with a jerking motion from left to right. We think whoever did it was waiting in the house, and when the Senator arrived home, he jumped him. The body was found in a storage closet in the basement.” McMahon paused as Mitchell made several notes. “The lock on the back door was picked, and the approximate time of death was twelve-fifteen A.M. The next one was a real piece of work. The perps broke into the house across the street from Congressman Koslowski’s and waited. Koslowski got out of bed, opened the shades, and they shot him twice in the back of the head.

  Approximate time of death was six oh five A.M. When we showed up at the house across the street, we found a sedated German shepherd and a groggy owner. We did blood tests on both the dog and the owner and found heavy traces of sedatives. When we pumped the dog’s stomach, we also found half-digested pieces of meat with traces of drugs. The owner had no needle marks, so we’re assuming he was chloroformed.”

  “Does this guy let his dog out before he goes to bed every night?”

  Mitchell asked. “Yes, every night before the local news,” McMahon responded.

  Mitchell nodded his head as if he already knew the answer before it was relayed. “The next murder was committed at approximately six twenty-five A.M. in a park by Senator

  Downs’s house. We have several witnesses who have reported seeing a man loitering in the area just prior to the death of the Senator. He was shot in the back of the head with two nine-millimeter rounds at point-blank range.” Mitchell glanced over his notes for a moment and then stood and grabbed a green marker.

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  In the upper left corner of the white board, he wrote the number 1 and 12:15 A.M.

  next to it. Next to that, he wrote the number 2 and 6:05 A.M. Then the number 3 and 6:25

  A.M. When he was finished, he stepped back and looked at the board for a minute. “We have three assassinations in about six hours.” Mitchell put the cap back on the marker and tapped it on the board. “The key to any covert operation is stealth and surprise.

  In the perfect operation you get in and out before anyone knows you were there, which these men obviously accomplished. When you’re planning something like this, the first thing you have to do is select your targets. After selecting them, you move into a surveillance mode.

  You follow these guys around and try to find a pattern. One guy walks his dog every morning at a certain time, another gets out of bed every morning at a certain time.

  When I was with the Delta Force, we took out a guy one time … I can’t say where or who, but our intelligence boys told us the target had this habit. He would get out of bed every morning and the first thing he would do was open the shades of his bedroom window. People, especially successful people, are habitual creatures. They’re organized.

  This makes them more producti
ve. I would be willing to bet you that this Koslowski character opened those shades every morning.

  I’d also bet Downs walked his dog in the park every morning.”

  “They did,” answered McMahon. “After you find the targets, the most difficult thing to do is to pick a window of opportunity to take them out. Now, when you’re looking at three big hitters, like these guys, that would be tough. As politicians, they travel on short notice and are always going in a million different directions. Downs may walk his dog every day, but only when he’s in town. Koslowski may open those shades every morning, but only when he’s in town. Fitzgerald may sleep in that house, but only when he’s in town.

  As the assassin you have to pick a time when you know all of your targets will be where you want them to be, and you have to do it in advance. The day the President’s budget was to go to the House for a vote would be the perfect time. None of them are traveling. They all stay right here in town so they can influence the outcome.” McMahon nodded. It made sense. How else could you be sure these guys would be where you wanted them? Mitchell took the cap off the marker and circled the times of the deaths. “If

  I were running this operation, this is how I’d do it. The local news is at eleven P.M right.

  well, at around ten P.M I’d put one team into action and they’d drop the drugged-up meat into the backyard for the dog. Either before then, or shortly after, I would send one or two guys into Fitzgerald’s house and wait for him to come home. I’ve got another team playing backup nearby. They’re probably sitting in a car a couple of blocks away, monitoring the local police scanner. Fitzgerald comes home and my guys take him out.

  They slide out of the house and are picked up by their backup. They hold their breath and wait to see if anyone saw them and called the cops. If all goes well and the cops don’t

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  show up at Fitzgerald’s, I proceed with phase two. Some time between one A.M. and four

  A.M another team breaks into the house across the street from Koslowski’s. They take care of the old man, but don’t kill him or the dog. This definitely offers some valuable insight into the minds of the assassins. Let me finish and we’ll go over it later. They set up the shot and wait. Now, these guys could be the same guys who took out Fitzgerald, but I doubt it. If I’m short on assets, I would have the first team take care of Fitzgerald and then have them get set up for Downs. I would use the second team only for