Term Limits (13 page)

There was a long silence while Wardwell pondered the question. All of a sudden he slapped his thighs with both hands. “Oh, my God. I didn't even think about it. The president's budget was supposed to be passed today. You take those guys out, and the budget is dead.”

“If the motive was to derail the budget, then why kill all three of them? Koslowski was in charge of the Appropriations Committee. All they had to do was kill him and the budget would have been dead. Why kill the two senators?” McMahon prodded.

“Well… if they wanted to cover their tracks and not make it look like they were trying to stop the budget, they would have killed more than just Koslowski.”

“Fair enough.” McMahon paused and tapped his finger on his chin. “Assuming you're right, why would someone take such a big risk just to stop the budget?”

“There could be a million different reasons… probably, all of them having to do with money. Maybe there was a new piece of legislation in there that was going to cost someone a whole lot of money, or maybe they had just cut funding for a program, and the people who have been receiving that money weren't very happy about it. The budget is a huge piece of legislation. There could be
over a thousand new entries in there that could drastically affect someone or some group's finances,” Wardwell said.

There was a short silence while they thought about Wardwell's comments, and then Jennings spoke up. “Yeah, or it could just be a group of Americans pissed off at the way these jerk-offs run the country.”

McMahon turned to Jennings. “All right, hotshot, it's your turn.”

Jennings sat forward on the couch. Her gun hung loosely in a shoulder holster under her left arm. “There are a lot of Americans out there who are sick and tired of the way these guys are running the country. Our own Counterterrorism Department has reported an alarming rise in threats against politicians over the last eighteen months. If I were an individual who was worried about losing money because of a new piece of legislation, Fitzgerald, Koslowski, and Downs would be the last three I would kill. They were the biggest spenders on the Hill.… Unless the president has some hard evidence that there's an ulterior motive behind these killings, I think they're just spewing political rhetoric.”

“Don't you think the timing is a little strange?” McMahon asked.

“What timing? That they were killed right before the budget was supposed to be voted on?” Jennings shook her head sideways. “No, I don't. This afternoon you told me what that Kennedy woman from the CIA had to say about these murders being committed by military-trained commandos. Well, I
thought about that for a while and then called my old firearms instructor from the FBI Academy. His name is Gus Mitchell. Have either of you ever met him?”

“Sure, I know him real well,” McMahon answered. Wardwell shook his head no.

“Well, Gus is an old Delta Force commando, so I called him and ran Kennedy's theory by him. We could only talk for a couple of minutes because he had to go teach a class, but in that short time he said something that didn't really sink in until you brought this budget thing up. Gus said one of the most difficult things about planning an operation like this would be to pick a time where you were guaranteed that all of your targets would be where you wanted them. When you look at these assassinations from the killers' standpoint, the morning before the budget is supposed to go to a vote is the perfect time. All of the congressmen have to be in town to vote, and all of the senators stay in town to try to influence the outcome. Any other day, and these guys are flying in and out of town with little or no notice.”

McMahon nodded his head up and down while he thought about Jennings's new angle. It might be worth his time to go give Gus Mitchell a little visit.

O'Rourke and Scarlatti were walking down the sidewalk. Scarlatti had both arms wrapped around O'Rourke's waist, and he had his arm around her shoulder. The cold night air felt good on their faces. Liz reached up and kissed him on the chin. O'Rourke smiled and noted it was the first time he
had done so in days. Everything had been so tense, so serious, over the last several weeks. It felt good holding on to Liz, but something told him things in Washington were going to get worse before they got better.

When they reached O'Rourke's house, they walked up the steps to the front door. The first level of the brownstone was a two-car garage. Parked on the same side of the street and down about three houses was a black BMW with dark-tinted windows and diplomatic license plates. The man behind the steering wheel watched as the handsome couple entered the house. He looked up and down the street to see if anyone had followed.

As Michael and Liz entered the house, O'Rourke's yellow Lab, Duke, jumped up from his spot on the kitchen floor and ran down the hallway. Liz let go of Michael to greet the excited dog.

“Hello, Duke. How are you? I've missed you.” Scarlatti patted him on the side and scratched his neck, while the eighty-pound Lab wagged his tail. O'Rourke said hello to his roommate of seven years and patted him on the head. Scarlatti stood up. “Where's your ball, Duke? Where's your ball? Go get your ball.” Duke frantically tapped his paws on the hardwood floor and then bolted down the hallway in search of his ball.

O'Rourke took Scarlatti's jacket, hung it up, and said, “Hey, don't get him too excited. I've got more important things for us to do than play fetch.”

“Come on, Michael, he's been inside all day. He needs to blow off a little steam.”

“Tim came by during lunch and took him for a
jog, and believe me, I need to blow off a lot more steam than Duke does.” O'Rourke smiled and wrapped both arms around her waist.

“Easy, big boy. You'll get yours soon enough.”

“I'm going to hold you to that promise.”

“Don't worry, you won't have to.” Scarlatti stood on her toes and kissed him. A second later Duke returned and dropped his blue ball at their feet. They ignored him for a while and continued to kiss until Duke let out a loud bark. Scarlatti let go of O'Rourke and grabbed the ball. She waved it in front of Duke's mouth several times, then threw it down the hallway.

O'Rourke patted her on the butt and started up the stairs. “I'm going to go fill the bathtub. When you're finished with Duke, why don't you grab a bottle of wine and come on up.” Scarlatti smiled and nodded her head.

When O'Rourke reached the second floor, he walked down the short hallway to his den. Standing in front of his selection of CDs, he ran his eyes over the thin plastic cases turned on their side. He stopped at one of Liz's favorites. O'Rourke grabbed the Shawn Colvin CD, put it in, and hit play. The light by the window was on, and the shade was open. He walked over, turned off the light, and stood for a moment looking down at the dark street below. The young congressman reflected back to a hunting trip he had taken almost a year ago. A trip where he had divulged a dark and damaging secret involving Senator Fitzgerald. For the first time since the murders, Michael allowed himself to wonder if the person he had told that secret to was capable of
taking the lives of Fitzgerald, Koslowski, and Downs. O'Rourke did not have to search deep—the answer was a resounding yes.

The assassin looked up at the shadow standing in the window on the second floor. The windows of the car were cracked slightly so he could hear what was going on outside the car. For several minutes, he continued to scan the street, checking to see if there were any new people or cars he hadn't seen on previous nights. He did so with minimal movement. Only his eyes darted back and forth, using the mirrors to look behind. After several minutes, he started the car and drove off. He had seen what he needed.

ROACH AND MCMAHON WERE SITTING IN THE Oval Office waiting for the president, Garret, and whoever else would be attending the meeting. It was almost twelve-fifteen, and no one had entered the room since a Secret Service agent had let them in at noon. The two FBI men were sitting in front of
the fireplace, one on each couch. Neither had said a word since arriving. The president and Garret were up to something, and Roach wasn't quite sure what it was, but until he figured it out, he would move with caution.

At that same moment, the president, Garret, Hopkinson, Speaker Basset, Senator Lloyd Hellerman, and a half dozen secretaries and aides were crowded around the large conference table in the Cabinet Room. They were scrambling to put together a media strategy that would help make the best of a dire situation. Most of the men in the room were aware of the nation's overall distrust of politicians, but none of them had imagined how bad it had gotten. Hopkinson was starting to get polling information back, and it was shocking. A poll conducted by
USA Today
showed that almost 40 percent of those questioned believed the country would be better off without Fitzgerald, Koslowski, and Downs.

When Garret heard the news earlier, he had snickered, “Let's see where those numbers are on Monday.” The reason he was so confident was because his phone had been ringing off the hook since the president's speech. Americans loved a conspiracy. They would eat up the idea that the letter was sent to confuse the FBI, and that the murders were committed in connection with a dark plot. The seeds had been planted, and the notorious rumor mill of D.C. and the media would take care of the rest. Speaker Basset and Senator Hellerman had even taken the bait. They had both arrived
early this morning and stopped by Garret's office to ask him if anything further had been learned about the dubious authenticity of the letter. Garret told them that even he was being kept in the dark—that the agency that had provided them with the information was taking careful steps to research the lead. Garret assured them that as soon as he found anything out, they would be the first to know.

One of the secretaries came down to the end of the table where the president and Garret were sitting and reminded them, for the third time, that Director Roach was waiting in the Oval Office. The president looked at his watch. It was 12:20 P.M. “Stu, twenty minutes is long enough for them to wait.”

Garret nodded his head. “Yeah, I suppose you're right.” Garret told the others they would be back and to continue without them. He and the president left and stopped by Mike Nance's office before heading on to the Oval Office.

The president entered his office first, followed by Garret and then Nance. Roach and McMahon rose to meet the commander in chief. The president walked over to both men and shook their hands. “Gentlemen, I apologize for being late, but things have been extremely hectic around here. Please be seated.” All five men sat down, and the president continued, “Well, has the FBI found anything out since yesterday?”

“We have the preliminary autopsy reports on all three bodies,” Roach said. “Agent McMahon has brought copies and is prepared to go over them with you, if you wish.”

Garret leaned back and crossed his legs. “That's
all right, just leave them here and we can look them over later.” Garret looked over at McMahon and stuck out his hand, expecting McMahon to personally deliver the documents.

McMahon glanced at him and then handed all three briefs to Mike Nance, who was sitting next to him on the couch. Nance kept one and passed the other two on to the president. The president kept one and gave Garret the last copy. Garret snatched it from his boss's hand and placed it in his folder. Without looking at either Roach or McMahon, Garret asked, “What else do you have for us?”

Director Roach nodded to McMahon, and McMahon handed Nance three more briefs. Roach noted, “We have three witnesses that saw the man who we think killed Senator Downs in the park. If you turn to the third page, you'll find a sketch of the perpetrator. As you can see, it's pretty generic. None of the witnesses got a straight shot of the man, and he was wearing a baseball hat.”

“What are you planning to do with this sketch?” the president asked.

“Well, in light of Dr. Kennedy's theory, I would like to start checking the personnel files of our Special Forces.”

The usually stoic Nance sat forward and cleared his throat. “I think that, for now, Dr. Kennedy's theory should be kept very quiet. It is completely unsubstantiated, and the press would have a field day if they found out the FBI suspected United States military personnel. Besides, there are some national security issues involved with rifling through top secret personnel files.”

“You're not actually taking her theory seriously, are you?” Garret asked.

“At this stage of the investigation, we are taking every lead seriously. I also understand the possible ramifications of Dr. Kennedy's theory being leaked to the press.” Roach looked over at Nance. “And I also do not expect the military to hand over top secret files. I was thinking more along the lines of having them pull photos of retired Special Forces personnel only. We would promise them that Special Agent McMahon and the three witnesses would be the only ones to see them.”

Nance's look of discomfort lessened but did not vanish.

“They wouldn't have to provide us with anything other than photographs. The witnesses wouldn't even need to know where the photos came from.”

“We might be able to arrange something along those lines, but I don't think the brass will like it,” Nance responded.

“Hold on a minute,” interrupted Garret. “Before we go running off on wild-goose chases, I think we should have a little more evidence than a theory from some little bookworm.”

McMahon stared at Garret and would not look away. He'd promised Roach that he would keep his cool and his mouth shut during the meeting. McMahon kept thinking to himself, How does a guy like this get to be the chief of staff for the president of the United States?

Roach cleared his throat and took center stage. “Well, since you've broached the subject of leads, could you tell me what information you have that
would lead you to believe the letter is a piece of disinformation?”