23
MICHAEL AND SEAMUS O’ROURKE WALKED INTO the plush restaurant and were greeted by a slight man wearing a tuxedo. Both O’Rourkes were impeccably dressed in dark wool suits. The maître d’ looked up along his thin nose and said, “May I help you?”
“Three for lunch, please,” said
Michael.
“Do you have a
reservation?”
“Yes, I think it’s under
Olson.”
The maître d’ looked at his reservation
book and clapped his hands together. “Oh, you must be Congressman
O’Rourke. And you must be the congressman’s
father.”
“No, I’m his
grandfather.”
“Oh.” The maître d’ looked down at the
reservation book. “Senator Olson’s secretary requested a private
corner table.” He grabbed three menus from under the podium. “If
you will follow me, I’ll show you to your
table.”
It was eleven forty-five and the
restaurant was almost empty. Busboys were shuffling back and forth
preparing each table for the busy lunch crowd.
The maître d’ glided
between the tables, his chin held high, leading them to a circular
table in the far corner. Stepping aside, he held a chair out for
the older of the two O’Rourkes. Seamus sat down and the maître d’
pushed in the chair.
The maître d’ stepped back, bowed, and
said, “Enjoy.”
Seamus grabbed his napkin and asked,
“What’s the word on this budget summit that they had at Camp
David?”
“They reported on the morning news that
they cut one hundred billion dollars from Stevens’s budget.”
Michael raised one of his eyebrows, showing what he thought of the
reports.
“I take it you don’t believe they actually
did it.”
“They reported it as a rumor. That means
one of two things: no one knows what actually happened, or it was
leaked to test the waters.”
“Which do you think it
was?”
“I’m not sure.” Michael looked toward the
entrance of the restaurant. Senator Olson had just entered with his
bodyguards. “We’ll find out soon enough. Erik is
here.”
Senator Olson and four serious-looking men
walked across the restaurant, led by the maître d’. Michael and
Seamus stood to meet their friend. Olson pushed his way by two of
the guards and the maître d’, extending his hand toward the older
of the two O’Rourkes. “Seamus, I didn’t know you were in town. When
did you get in?”
“Friday
morning.”
Olson shook his hand and then Michael’s.
The maître d’ seated the four Secret Service agents
at the next
table. Three of them sat with their backs to Olson and the
O’Rourkes and one sat facing them. After sitting, Olson looked at
Seamus and frowned. “Knowing your disdain for Washington, I assume
there must be something pretty important going on for you to come
here.”
The statement was met with a slight grin.
“Not really. I had some business to take care of, and I wanted an
excuse to visit Michael and Tim.”
“Is everything all right at the mill?” The
O’Rourke Timber Company was the largest employer in Grand Rapids
and thus a political concern for Olson.
“The mill is doing fine, in spite of all
the interference I’m getting from your friends over at the EPA, the
Commerce Department, and the Department of the
Interior.”
A waiter approached the table and greeted
them. Olson was thankful for the distraction. He admired Seamus but
was not always comfortable with his penchant for direct
confrontation. He’d noticed recently that Michael, like his father
before him, had inherited this honest, but not always pleasant,
Irish attribute.
The waiter asked if they would like
anything to drink. Erik and Seamus ordered iced tea and Michael
ordered a Coke. Olson informed them that the Joint Intelligence
Committee was to reconvene at 1 P.M., and if it was all right with them, he’d
like to order lunch while the waiter was there. The O’Rourkes
agreed and they placed their orders.
As soon as the waiter left, Seamus looked
across the circular table and said, “Erik, I understand
you were
involved in the budget summit at Camp David this
weekend.”
Olson looked down and brushed his hand
across the white tablecloth as if he were cleaning crumbs away.
Looking up with shame in his eyes, he said, “Yes, I was
there.”
“How did it
go?”
“I’d rather not
say.”
Seamus gave him a tightly screwed frown as
if he was offended.
Olson shrugged his shoulders and said,
“The president asked us to keep quiet about the
details.”
“They were saying on the morning news that
you cut one hundred billion dollars from the budget. Is that true?”
asked Michael in a doubtful tone.
“You don’t sound like you believe it,”
said Olson.
“I don’t think you can get the two parties
together and cut one hundred billion dollars in two
days.”
Olson looked blankly at Michael and then
Seamus. “You’d be amazed what people are capable of doing when
they’re backed into a corner.” The disgust was openly visible on
his face.
“Erik, what happened up there?” asked
Seamus.
“I promised the president I wouldn’t talk
about it.”
Michael leaned closer to Olson and looked
him in the eye. “Erik, if you don’t think you can trust us, this
town has really gotten the best of you.”
Olson looked at Michael and then Seamus,
thinking about the close friendship between their two families.
Michael’s father had been Erik’s best friend. The O’Rourkes were
the most honest people he knew. When they gave their word, they
meant it. Olson fidgeted in his chair and leaned forward. Seamus
and Michael did the same. “I’ll tell you what happened, but you
have to promise me you will tell no one.” Seamus and Michael nodded
yes. “That means no one. Especially Liz,
Michael.”
“You have my
word.”
Olson slowly recounted the weekend’s
events. Michael and Seamus listened intently and stayed quiet. Five
minutes into Olson’s account, lunch was served. The plates were
pushed aside as Olson continued to recount the president and
Garret’s plan to mislead the public. Olson became more animated and
angry as he explained in detail how they were going to actually
spend more money and, through accounting gimmicks, say they were
cutting the budget. The same was true for the O’Rourkes. The more
they heard, the more they strained to keep their mouths shut. When
Olson was done, he sat back in his chair and took a large gulp of
water.
Seamus was the first to speak. With his
deep, weathered voice he said, “Those bastards all deserve to
die.”
The severity of the comment almost caused
Olson to spit his water back up. “You don’t really mean that, do
you?”
“You’re damn right I
do.”
Olson looked to Michael, and Michael said
nothing. “Seamus, don’t you think that statement is a little harsh
considering recent events?”
The older of the O’Rourkes repeated his
conviction. “Those corrupt bastards deserved to die,
too.”
“You can’t be
serious?”
“I’m very serious. They were running this
country right into the ground, and I couldn’t be happier now
that they’re dead.”
“It doesn’t scare you in the slightest
that some group of terrorists has decided to circumvent the
democratic process?”
“One man’s terrorist is another man’s
freedom fighter.”
“Did you learn that one from the IRA?”
Olson regretted the shot before he’d finished making it. It was not
a good idea to provoke Seamus.
Seamus sat like a rock, his eyes burrowing
deeper and deeper into Olson’s, his large fist clenched on top of
the table. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.” Seamus O’Rourke was
financially involved with the Irish Republican Army in the years
following World War II. Seamus was born in Ireland and moved to the
United States with his parents at a very young age. He believed
strongly in Ireland’s right to self-rule and thought Britain’s
conquest of Ireland was no different from their conquest of India
or any of the other colonies. He supported the IRA’s paramilitary
efforts until they started setting off bombs and killing innocent
people. That was too much. Fighting for independence like a
disciplined soldier was one thing, fighting for it like a cheap
thug was another.
Olson broke the silence. “You don’t really
think what these . . . assassins have done is
justifiable?”
“Not only do I think it’s justifiable, I
think it’s necessary.”
“I can’t believe I’m hearing this. I mean,
I know you don’t like politicians, Seamus, but you can’t really
believe those men deserved to die.”
“I do.”
“Have you lost all faith in the democratic
process, in the people’s ability to effect change by
voting?”
“The system has become too complicated and
corrupt. Every single candidate lies to get elected and then sells
his soul to the parasite special-interest groups who gave him the
money to run his campaign. The two-party system has made change
impossible. No one’s willing to face the real problems and do
what’s right.”
“I acknowledge that things could be
better, but we still have the best leadership and political system
in the world.”
Seamus laughed out loud. “That’s
debatable, and even if you’re right, it won’t be true for
long.”
“What is that supposed to
mean?”
“Look at the numbers, Erik. We’re going
bankrupt, both morally and financially. We need some drastic
changes, or the most powerful country in the world is going to go
the way of Rome.”
“And violence is the way to bring that
change about?”
Seamus rubbed his chin.
“Maybe.”
Olson shook his head sideways. “Violence
is not the answer.” The senator looked out the window as if Seamus
didn’t deserve the courtesy of eye contact. “Violence is never the
answer.”
Seamus’s complexion reddened, and he
slammed his fist down on the table. The silverware, plates, and
glasses shook, and the Secret Service agents at the next table
snapped their heads around. Seamus ignored them and leaned toward
Olson. “Erik, I don’t mind a healthy debate, but don’t ever use a line
of crap like that on me again. I’m not one of your naive college
students, and I’m not some little sycophant political activist.
I’ve seen people killed, and I’ve killed people in the service of
our country. Your idealistic, philosophical theories might fly in
the hallowed halls of Congress, but they don’t work in the real
world. Violence is a fact of life. There are people who are willing
to use it to get what they want, and in order to stop them they
need to be met with violence. If it wasn’t for war, or the threat
of waging war, people like Adolf Hitler and Joseph Stalin would be
running the world, and you would get shot for going around saying
stupid things like ‘violence only begets violence.’
”
Olson was embarrassed. He was not used to
being spoken to in such a manner. The oldest O’Rourke took words
more seriously than most people, and Olson had forgotten that the
art of debate, as it was practiced in Washington, did not work on
men and women who had no time for political posturing. Seamus
O’Rourke was not a man to be patronized with political or
philosophical slogans. Olson exhaled deeply and said, “Seamus, I
apologize. The last couple of weeks have been very hard on me, and
I’m not feeling very well.”
Seamus nodded his head, accepting the
apology.
Olson sat back and rubbed his eyes. “This
entire thing is wearing me down.”
Michael placed a hand on the senator’s
shoulder. “Erik, are you all right?”
“Physically, yes . . . mentally, I’m not
so sure.” His hands dropped limply to his lap. “You’re
right about
the debt, Michael. You’ve been harping on me about it for years,
and deep down inside I always knew you were right. I just thought
that when things got tough the two parties would put aside their
differences and do what was right. Well, I was wrong. Here we are
in the midst of the biggest peacetime crisis we’ve seen since the
Depression, and what do we do? We come up with some gimmick that’s
meant to deceive the American people and these damn assassins!”
Olson stopped and shook his finger. “And it’s all the president’s
and that damn Stu Garret’s fault! At the one time when we really
need leadership, we have none. Those two self-centered idiots are
running around taking opinion polls, if you can believe
it!”
Michael nodded. “Oh, I can believe it.
They only have one thing on their mind, Erik—how they’re going to
win the election next year.”
“You are absolutely right, and I’m sick of
it.”
“What are you going to do about it?” asked
Seamus.
“I’m going to give the president a week to
put together a new budget with some real cuts in it, and if he
does, I will sign on.”
“What will you do if he sends this current
one to the House?” asked Michael.
“I will expose it for what it is—a
sham.”
Michael felt a wave of confidence rush
over him. With Erik taking the lead on this, the president would be
forced to make real cuts. The senior senator looked down at his
watch and said, “Damn! My committee meeting starts in five
minutes.” Olson looked up for their waiter, who was nowhere
in sight.
Next he reached for his wallet and Seamus placed a hand on his arm,
stopping him. “Don’t worry, Erik. After what you’ve just told me,
I’ll be more than happy to take care of the
bill.”
Olson stood and grinned. Slapping Seamus
on the back, he said, “You’re a pain in the ass, Seamus, but I love
you. You have a unique and refreshing way of putting things into
context. We could use a couple more of you around here just to keep
the rest of us on our toes.”
Michael shook Olson’s hand and said,
“Anything you need, call me.” Olson nodded and left. Michael and
Seamus watched him leave and then Seamus paid the
tab.
As they walked out onto the sidewalk, the
sun was just starting to peek out from behind the clouds. Michael
had told Seamus of his meeting with Scott Coleman. Seamus’s only
response was, “Stay out of the man’s way. If he’s behind it, we
should all be grateful.” Michael thought his grandfather was
carrying it a little too far, but for the time being he agreed that
it would be best to give Coleman room. If Coleman was behind the
assassinations, which Michael had little doubt about at this point,
then his fake missile attack on the president’s helicopter was
ingenious. He had sent a clear message that no one was out of his
reach. Now if Erik could exert enough political pressure on the
White House, everything would fall into
place.
They stopped at the first intersection and
were waiting for the light to change when Michael turned and saw
Senator Olson’s limousine pull out of the underground parking
garage a half block down the street. The large, dark car turned toward them,
its powerful engine roaring as it pulled out into traffic. Michael
watched as it approached, then the highpitched whine of a
motorcycle caught his attention. The sleek black bike broke away
from the rest of the traffic and raced toward them. The driver and
his passenger were both wearing dark helmets and black leather
pants and jackets.
The limo approached the intersection and
stopped as the light turned red. The other pedestrians started to
walk and then stopped as the highpitched whine of the motorcycle’s
engine reverberated off the surrounding buildings. Michael stuck
his arm out in front of Seamus and focused on the motorcycle as it
raced up the street.
The dark bike and its riders darted in
between the rows of cars that had stopped for the light and
continued to accelerate. The bike approached the senator’s
limousine, and then, suddenly, the man riding on the back leaned
out and tossed a dark bag onto the roof of the limo. The bike
continued on, skidding into a hard right turn and slicing through
the lanes of traffic.
Michael looked at the bag and
instinctively turned to shield Seamus. The noise was deafening. The
roof of the limo imploded, and the tinted windows blasted outward,
propelled by bright orange and red flames. The explosion rocked the
entire block, throwing the O’Rourkes and the other pedestrians
violently to the ground.