30
MCMAHON WAS BACK IN THE JOINT SPECIAL Operations Command’s conference room at the Pentagon, eating a microwaved container of lasagna that was more than a little salty. His entire afternoon had been spent meeting with Harvey Wilcox, the deputy director of the FBI’s Counterterrorism Department; Madeline Nanny, the deputy director of the FBI’s Counter Espionage Department; and Director Roach. Both departments had the equipment and personnel to run surveillance on the fourteen black former commandos who were living in the D.C. metro area. Neither Roach nor McMahon had to ask for the full cooperation of the two deputy directors. Both understood the priority of the task that had been handed to them. Nanny had more available assets, so she took nine of the fourteen dossiers and Wilcox took the other five. They estimated they could initiate surveillance during the next twenty-four hours, and depending on the individual movements of the suspects, they could have airtight surveillance established within seventy-two hours. The total number of agents to be involved was calculated at 140.
McMahon finished explaining the details of
the surveillance to Kennedy and General Heaney right about the time
he finished eating the lasagna that he knew would give him
heartburn. He slid the Styrofoam box off to the side and asked
General Heaney if he had any Tums.
The general produced a roll and tossed it
across the table. A moment later one of the general’s aides entered
the room and handed him a computer printout and a cover sheet.
Heaney thanked the young officer and glanced over the cover sheet.
“Our computer ran a search for any former commandos living within a
hundred miles of Washington, D.C. It turned up ninety-four SEALs,
eighty-one Green Berets, and sixty-eight Delta Force
commandos.”
McMahon’s face twisted into a painful
look. “That’s over two hundred possible
suspects.”
“Yes, but that was before we directed the
computer to narrow the search to only commandos that had served
with the fourteen black commandos.”
“What did that bring the numbers down
to?”
The general glanced down at the sheet. “
Twentysix Green Berets and nineteen
Deltas.”
Kennedy peered over the top of her
glasses. “What happened to all the
SEALs?”
The general read over the summary for a
moment. “There are only two former SEALs who fit the description of
the assassin that killed Downs, and they both live in San
Diego.”
While Kennedy wrestled with that piece of
information, McMahon asked, “Where are we going to get the
resources to tail forty-five people around the clock?” Looking to
Kennedy, he asked, “Irene, do you have the manpower to handle
this?” Kennedy was staring off into space, and McMahon repeated the
question. Kennedy still didn’t answer, so McMahon snapped his
fingers. “Earth to Irene, come in.”
Kennedy’s eyes came back into focus.
“Excuse me.”
“Do you need a
break?”
“No, I’m fine. I was just thinking about
something else.”
McMahon repeated, “Do you have the assets
to conduct around-the-clock surveillance on forty-five
suspects?”
“Yes.”
“How?” asked McMahon with a disbelieving
look on his face.
Kennedy started to give her answer, then
stopped, saying, “You don’t want to
know.”
“No, I suppose I
don’t.”
“General Heaney,” said Kennedy, “would it
be possible for me to take a look at all ninety-four files of the
SEALs that live in the D.C. area?”
“Why?”
“I have a
hunch.”
McMahon’s ears perked up at the
word hunch. He believed strongly in intuition and
hunches. “Let’s hear it.”
“I’m not comfortable with dumping
ninety-four potential suspects based on a piece of information that
I’m not sure I trust.”
“What piece of information are you
referring to?” asked McMahon.
“The black assassin in the park. These
people have done everything perfectly with one exception: they
exposed the guy in the park when we all agree the correct way to
kill Downs would have been with a concealed rifle shot.” Kennedy
took her glasses off and rubbed her eyes. “We have let this one
piece of possibly flawed evidence steer our entire investigation in
a very specific direction. Based on this one piece of information
we have excluded all SEALs from our
investigation.”
“That’s what investigations are all about,
Irene,” said McMahon. “You analyze evidence and narrow your
search.”
“That’s assuming the evidence is
untainted.” Kennedy rose and started to pace. “There is only one
logical reason for them to put him in the park, and I can’t believe
I didn’t see it earlier. They put him there because they wanted him
to be seen.”
“Why would they want him to be seen?”
asked Heaney.
“To throw us off. What if the guy wasn’t
black? What if they made him look like he was
black?”
“Why would they want us to think he was
black?”
McMahon saw where Kennedy was going. “If
they were SEALs, they would.” The room fell silent
while the pieces fell
into place for Heaney. McMahon stood and rolled his sleeves up.
“General, I think we had better take a look at those files. While
we’re doing that, I’ll have my people initiate surveillance of the
fourteen black commandos. Irene, you get your people moving on the
other commandos, and we’ll have to consider investigating any SEALs
on a case-by-case basis.”
An irritating noise broke the silence of
the predawn morning. A hand reached through the darkness toward the
red, blinking digital numbers and found the alarm clock. A second
later the noise was silenced. O’Rourke rolled over and wrapped
himself around Liz. The previous evening had been a quiet one. Liz
had finished writing her column about nine and came over with a
movie. Luckily for Michael, she was tired and not in the mood for
conversation. Thirty minutes into the video they were both
asleep.
Michael was trying his best to make things
seem normal and was, for the most part, succeeding. It helped that
Liz was busy with her job. Michael couldn’t get Arthur Higgins out
of his mind. After returning from Georgia, he had gone to the
Congressional Library to see what he could find out about the
former head of the CIA’s most secretive branch. He came up with
nothing, which only added to the
mystery.
Michael brushed Liz’s hair aside and
kissed her naked shoulder. She turned her head slightly, and he
kissed her cheek. O’Rourke kissed her one more time and got out of
bed. Grabbing a pair of sweatpants from a hook on the door, Michael put them
on and headed downstairs. Duke met him at the bottom of the stairs
and followed him into the kitchen. The coffeemaker was filled to
the top and started. All of his hunting gear was kept in the
basement. After descending another flight of stairs, Michael opened
the closet and put on a pair of wool socks, khaki pants, a blue
flannel shirt, and a pair of boots. The rest of his gear was kept
out at the cabin along with several shotguns. By the time he got
back up to the kitchen, the pot was done brewing. He poured the
whole thing into a large thermos and filled a travel mug for the
road. Duke was at his feet stretching and yawning. Before leaving,
O’Rourke went back upstairs, set the alarm clock for
7 A.M., and kissed Liz on the cheek.
Down in the small garage of the
brownstone, Michael loaded Duke into the back of the truck and
opened the garage door. Less than five minutes later, he pulled up
in front of his brother’s house. Tim, Seamus, and Tim’s chocolate
Lab, Cleo, climbed into the truck, and they headed toward the
cabin. Against Michael’s wishes Seamus had told Tim everything that
had happened over the past two weeks.
For the majority of the drive they
discussed the information they had learned from Augie. When they
arrived at the cabin, Coleman was already there. He was waiting
inside at the kitchen table. The O’Rourkes pulled up chairs, and
the coffee mugs were filled to the brim.
When everyone was settled in, Coleman
eagerly asked, “What have you found
out?”
“Have you ever heard of a man named Arthur
Higgins?”
Coleman squinted.
“Yes.”
“Have you ever met
him?”
“No.”
“What do you know about
him?”
“He’s an old spook over at the CIA. He
handles a lot of dark operations and has a reputation as a man you
don’t screw around with.”
“What do you mean by dark operations?”
asked Tim.
“Covert operations that are funded from
nongovernment sources and run without the official knowledge of the
president and the Intelligence
Committee.”
“Have you ever been involved in one of
these operations?”
“No.” Coleman shook his head. “They use
mercenaries . . . former commandos. These things can’t be connected
in any way to our government. The whole reason they are run as a
dark op is because the spooks know they could never get official
approval. They have to have complete deniability if anything goes
wrong. The money can’t be traced back to the U.S. and neither can
the soldiers. Before the SEALs or any other American military
personnel can be sent into a foreign country to conduct a covert
operation, the CIA or the Pentagon has to get approval from a
ranking member of the Intelligence Committee and the president.
Dark operations completely circumvent the chain of command. It’s a
strange world, very secretive and risky. Everything is done
unofficially and without a paper trail. All you ever hear about these people
are whispers and rumors. I actually know some former SEALs who have
worked for Higgins.”
“Do you think you could talk to them and
find out what they know about him?” asked
Michael.
“I could, but Higgins is the type of
person you don’t just start asking questions about, or you might
end up as shark bait.”
“I thought you SEALs were a tight group.
Can’t you ask them a few questions without raising too much
attention?”
“Maybe, maybe not. This isn’t like calling
up an old high school buddy and asking him about a girl he used to
date. These are serious people and they don’t like questions. They
prefer to stay anonymous and quiet.”
“What in the hell are a couple of former
SEALs doing working for a guy like Higgins?” asked
Tim.
“What do you expect them to do when they
leave the service . . . go sell used cars or program computers? We
are trained to do a very specific job, and trained to do it better
than anyone else in the world. If you’re a SEAL, you’re better than
ninety-nine point nine percent of all the soldiers who have ever
laced up a boot. You are the best of the best, and do you know what
you get paid? . . . You max out at about forty grand a year. Then
one day you leave the service and you’re confronted with two
options. You go to work in the private sector in a boring
nine-to-five job and get paid about the same as when you were in
the military, or you go to work for some guy like Higgins and get
paid six figures plus for working about fifty
days a year. And guys
like Higgins aren’t the only people who want you. Big-time drug
dealers, oil sheikhs, third-world governments, international
bankers, they’re all willing to pay big bucks to have a SEAL on
their security staff. I know guys that are getting paid a half a
million a year to sit around and play bodyguard. For a lot of these
guys it’s a status thing to be able to say their bodyguard is a
SEAL. In the Middle East our reputation alone scares the shit out
of people.”
“I understand your point, but I thought
you guys had an honor code,” said Tim.
“We do, but we’re not an infallible
fraternity. We have our bad apples just like any other
organization. The reality is there are people who are willing to
kill for money, and once they cross that line, they are no longer
part of our brotherhood . . . they are assassins and
mercenaries.”
“So you don’t think it would be wise to
start asking questions about Higgins?” asked
Michael.
“From what I’ve heard about the man, no, I
don’t. What has got you so interested in
him?”
“Seamus and I took a little trip down to
Georgia yesterday to talk to Augie
Jackson.”
“Seamus’s friend who used to work for the
CIA?”
“Yes. . . . Augie told us some pretty
interesting stories about Higgins. He’s convinced that he’s
responsible for the killing of Erik and Congressman
Turnquist.”
Coleman grew cautious. “So he buys into
the idea that there are two separate groups doing the
killing?”
“Yes.”
“Did he ask any questions about who the
first group might be?”
“Yes.”
Coleman stared at Michael for a long time.
“You told him, didn’t you?” Coleman looked to Seamus, and neither
he nor Michael answered the question. The former SEAL shook his
head and swore.
“He only knows that I’m involved,” said
Seamus. “Scott, we can trust Augie.”
Coleman looked at his watch. “Well, we’ll
know the answer to that any minute. If you hear any choppers
overhead, we can all kiss our asses
goodbye.”
“Scott, he believes in what we’re doing.
He hated Fitzgerald and Koslowski more than we did, and he was very
convincing with the stuff he told us about
Arthur.”
“Why does he think Higgins killed Erik and
Turnquist?”
Michael spent the next several minutes
telling Coleman Augie’s story. He relayed the story of the covert
mission that Arthur had masterminded to get rid of the French
politicians back in the early sixties and then went on to explain
Arthur’s hatred for Senator Olson. Coleman asked few questions.
Michael told him how Arthur was forced out of the Agency by
Stansfield and ordered to cease any involvement in intelligence and
national security issues. When Michael was done recounting Augie’s
story, he asked Coleman what he thought.
“The man has the power and resources to
pull it off, and as I told you several days ago, whoever blew up
Erik’s limo has to have some real connections.
They had less than a week
to put that operation together.” Coleman shrugged his shoulders.
“It wouldn’t surprise me in the slightest if he had a hand in this,
but we don’t have the intel or the capability to know for
sure.”
“I know, but we have to do
something.”
Coleman tapped the side of his mug. “I
really don’t think it’s a good idea to ask any more questions about
this guy. The FBI’s investigation is kicking into high gear. It’s
important that we act normal and don’t draw any attention to
ourselves.” Coleman pointed at the three O’Rourkes. “You guys can
get away with a lot more than I can. They’re not going to come
after you, but sooner or later they’re gonna come knocking on my
door.”
Seamus thought about what Coleman had said
for a moment and then asked, “What about taking him
out?”
“Higgins?”
“Yes.”
“In principle I don’t have a problem with
it. From what I’ve heard he’s the snake of snakes, but I’d like to
be a little more sure that he was behind this before we go to that
extreme. Besides, I’m not even sure we could get to him. My guess
is that he has some pretty tight security around
him.”
Michael slid the dossier across the table.
“Augie gave this to us before we left. It’s a full profile of
Arthur’s movements and security measures. It breaks down his
estate’s security system step-by-step and describes, in detail, the
endeavors he has continued to be involved in since he was forced
out of the Agency.”
Coleman opened the file and started
thumbing through the pages. After several minutes Coleman looked
at Michael. “You got this from this guy that used to work at the
CIA?”
“Yes.”
“Where did he get
it?”
“He compiled it for Director
Stansfield.”
“They were thinking about taking him out,
weren’t they?”
“Yes.”
“Unbelievable.”
“In the back,” Seamus said, “there’s a
section describing his business dealings and continued meddling in
the CIA’s business. If you turn to page four of the section, you’ll
find a highlighted paragraph that you’re not going to
like.”
Coleman flipped to the back of the file
and scanned the paragraph. It stated that Higgins was believed to
be involved with a group of black marketers who were stealing
high-tech U.S. weaponry from manufacturers and military bases and
selling it abroad through a Middle East arms dealer that had known
sympathies for anti-American regimes. Like any other U.S. soldier,
Coleman hated the thought that he or his men might be killed by an
American-made weapon, especially a high-tech weapon that wasn’t
supposed to be sold.
Coleman finished reading the paragraph and
looked up at the former Recon Marine sitting across the table.
“Michael, I think you and I should go take a look at his estate
this evening.”
On the top floor of the residential side
of the White House was a large room that faced south
called the Solarium. The
room sat above the Eisenhower Balcony and had large plate-glass
windows running from the floor to the ceiling. Stevens liked the
room because it was the brightest in the White House, and since he
was starting to feel like a caged animal, he decided to move his
lunch meeting up to the top floor, where he could actually see
beyond the gates of the compound. He was scheduled to meet with the
leaders of his party to go over the legislative agenda for Monday’s
reconvening of the House and Senate.
Stevens looked out across the South Lawn
toward the Washington Monument. The large green personnel carriers
and tanks were clearly visible from his panoramic perch. “God, it’s
only been four days since we got back from Camp David, and I
already feel trapped.” Stevens shook his head at a flight of four
green Cobra gunships working their way eastward across the Mall
from the Lincoln Monument to the Capitol. The sight of all the
military equipment so openly visible in the heart of Washington
made him wonder if the decision to bring in the military was wise.
“Stu, are you sure this is the right thing to
do?”
Garret was sitting at a small desk
feverishly writing. Without looking up he asked, “Is what the right
thing to do?”
Stevens waved his arm in front of him,
gesturing toward the Mall. “Bringing in such a strong military
presence. I mean, do we really need tanks in front of the
Washington Monument? It just . . . it just makes me look so harsh.
Like I’m a dictator.”
“That’s what we need right now, Jim. I’ve
talked to
every pollster from New York to L.A. over the last three days, and
they’re all telling me the same thing. The American people want law
and order returned to their capital. The voters are scared and
they’re looking to you for guidance and leadership. Bringing the
military in will portray the right message. You’ll be seen as a
strong and decisive leader.”
“I know, but what about what you said
initially? That we’d look like the Chinese if we brought in the
tanks?”
“Shit, that was before they killed the
damn Speaker of the House in broad daylight and tried to blow us
out of the sky. Things have gotten much more serious than they were
after that first morning. The voters are scared. At first they got
off on the thrill of seeing a couple of dinosaurs like Fitzgerald
and Koslowski get assassinated. That initial thrill is gone, and
they want a return to law and order. They’ll turn on their TVs when
they sit down to eat dinner tonight, and they’ll see a stone-faced
soldier sitting on the turret of a tank and they’ll be happy they
have a strong president who’s willing to take action in a time of
crisis. Trust me, Jim, I know what I’m doing on this
one.”