shots?”
“No, the distance of the shot was only about one hundred feet.
Short enough that a silencer could be used without affecting the accuracy of the shot.”
McMahon continued to speak without giving Garret a chance to ask more questions. “As
I’m sure everyone has heard by now, Robert Downs was killed in a park by his house, over in McLean.
Two nine-millimeter rounds were fired into the back of his head at point-blank range.
We have a description of a possible suspect from a woman who walks in the park every morning. She says that she passed Downs on the walking path this morning at approximately the spot where his body was found. She, along with several other people, have reported seeing a black man dressed in sweats, standing by a tree about twenty yards from where Downs was killed. None of these people say they’ve seen the person in the park before. Their guess is that he was around thirty years old. Our agents are still interviewing these people, trying to get as much information as possible. I apologize, gentlemen, for the lack of details, but, as I said earlier, this investigation is only a few hours old.”
“Thank you, Mr. McMahon,” said the President. “I fully understand that we are still in the early stages of this investigation, but nonetheless, I would like to hear some opinions.
Does anyone have any idea why these three men were killed, and by whom?” As usual, Garret was the first, and in this situation the least qualified, to respond.
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“Until we know more, I think it’s a pretty safe bet that it’s a terrorist group. One that’s probably not so happy about the peace that’s spreading in the Middle East, or one of those wacky militia groups from out West.”
The President turned to the director of the FBI. “Brian, what are your thoughts?”
“Sir, it’s too early to give an informed answer. There just isn’t enough data to make an intelligent assumption. Almost anything could be possible. It could be anyone.”
The President looked to McMahon and asked, “Mr. McMahon, I know we don’t have all the facts, but please speak your mind.” The President stared at McMahon and waited for a response.
“Well, sir, we have three important politicians murdered at three different locations within a five-hour period. Whoever pulled off this operation had to have been planning it for a long time. They took the time to study their targets and carefully picked when and how to kill each one. They were probably well financed and had access to some very talented killers. Those killers could be terrorists, ex-military commandos, or hired assassins. Given the information we have right now, your guess is as good as mine.”
The President nodded and looked at his chief of staff. Garret took the cue and said, “Gentlemen, the President needs to address the nation and try to explain what’s going on.
Now is not the time to be shy with your opinions.” There was a long silence, and then
Garret looked to the head of the CIA. “Director Stansfield, what’s your take on what happened?”
“I would caution against drawing any conclusions until Special Agent McMahon and his people have had time to investigate.” Stansfield’s response was again followed by an uncomfortable silence. Both Director Stansfield and Director Roach had seen how Garret and President Stevens liked to operate, and neither felt the need to commit to anything with so many questions still unanswered.
Roach and Stansfield had both started at the very bottom of their respective agencies, and over the years, they’d seen Presidents come and go, and with them, their political appointees who ran the CIA and FBI.
Some of these directors were more loyal to the man who had appointed them than to the agency they were supposed to be running. Not Roach and Stansfield: to them the FBI
and CIA came first. Political expediency and posturing were things they liked to avoid at all costs.
Political solutions were often good for the short term, and for the people making them, but they were more often than not disastrous in the long run. The President sat back in his chair and quietly cursed himself for not replacing Roach and Stansfield when he had taken over the White House.
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Garret had wanted both men replaced, and Stevens was sure he would be reminded of this as soon as the meeting was over. If we hadn’t had such a hard time getting cabinet members confirmed, Stevens thought to himself, none of this would be a problem. During the first six months of the Stevens administration, four consecutive cabinet nominees had been shot down. Three had had to bow out after intense scrutiny by the press revealed some minor misdoings in their past, and the fourth made it to an actual committee vote but was embarrassingly rejected. By the time the cabinet was filled, the administration had expended so much political clout and had received such a grilling from the press that they decided rather than risking another potentially embarrassing confirmation hearing, they would be better off leaving Stansfield in charge of the CIA until a more opportune time arose. The President was coming to the realization that he had waited too long.
Stevens looked at Kennedy, the CIA’s terrorism expert.
“Dr. Kennedy, what is your opinion?” Kennedy had the highest IQ in the room by a significant margin. The thirty-eight-year-old mother of one had a Ph.D. in Arabic studies and a master’s degree in military history. The doctor leaned forward and took her glasses off. Her sandy brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she was wearing one of her trademark pantsuits. She placed her arms on the table and started to speak in a confident tone.
“I would have to concur with Special Agent McMahon. The men who conducted this operation are either terrorists, hired assassins, or military commandos. My assumption is that it was the latter of the three.”
Garret blurted out, “What makes you so sure about that?”
“I think they were military commandos because Mr. Burmiester is still alive.” Garret’s face squeezed into an irritated frown. “Mr. Who?”
“Mr. Burmiester, the man who lives across the street from Congressman Koslowski.
