Hopkinson stood and started for the door. As soon as he was gone, Garret leaned forward and spoke in a low tone. “I am really pissed off with the way that meeting went this morning, and not just because that no-name agent got in my face. I’m pissed because here we are in the middle of a crisis and we can’t even trust the very people we are dependent on to give us information. Now, I don’t want to go back and rehash why Roach and Stansfield weren’t replaced when we took office.
“We all know why they weren’t, and we were all in agreement at the time. ”
“In light of our difficulties in getting the cabinet confirmed, the right thing to do was leave them in charge of the FBI and the CIA.”
Garret’s balding, skinny head shook and his cheeks tensed. “Now, here we are in the middle of a major crisis, and I don’t trust either one of them as far as I can throw them.
What are we going to do about it?”
The President considered the question and answered, “Well, neither of them is willing to resign, and considering the crisis we’re confronted with, I think trying to force them out would be unwise.”
Nance sat still while both men looked to him for his opinion. He was the professional spook of the group, having spent most of his early years working for Army intelligence and then moving on to the National Security Agency. He had a sharp mind and was good at putting things in motion. The idea for blackmailing Congressman Moore had been his.
“If you’re serious about getting rid of them,” Nance finally responded, “you’ll have to do it through public pressure and pressure from the Hill. They have to be embarrassed into leaving their jobs.” He paused for a moment, his mind calculating the next move. “The pressure to solve these murders will rest solely on the shoulders of the FBI. If Roach doesn’t make progress on the case, it will be very easy to turn the dogs loose on him.”
Nance held a finger up in the air. “And I have some ideas on how we may be able to speed up the process.”
The SUN WAS DROPPING OVER the WESTERN HORIZON, AND DROPPING
with it was the temperature. O’Rourke walked down the street with his hands in his pockets. He was wearing a pair of jeans, a flannel shirt, and a dark brown leather jacket.
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His left hand was wrapped around the handle of a .45-caliber Combatmaster made by
Detonics. The palm-sized pistol packed a huge punch. As a Congressman, O’Rourke had obtained a special permit to carry the weapon. He wasn’t carrying the gun just because of the recent assassinations. He had started carrying it several years ago to protect himself against the roving packs of gang-bangers that roamed the streets of D.C. O’Rourke had been a bone-crushing defenseman for the University of Minnesota hockey team. With his size and speed, few people toyed with him on or off the ice, but the muggers of D.C.
cared little about size. The second most traumatic event in O’Rourke’s life had proved that. The thought of his friend’s mugging caused Michael to tighten his grip around the handle of the gun. One year earlier, Michael’s best friend had been shot and killed just two blocks from the Capitol. Mark Coleman and O’Rourke worked on Senator Olson’s staff and were roommates. One night Coleman was on his way home from work when he was stopped by a twenty-two-year-old crack addict. A witness saw the shaky young man walk up to Coleman and, without saying a word, shoot him in the chest, grab his wallet, and run. The police caught the man the next day. The murderer had already been convicted of armed robbery twice but was paroled early because of a lack of space in the
D.C. jails.
O’Rourke hadn’t been concerned that his roommate didn’t come home that night.
Coleman was engaged and spent most of his evenings at his fiancжe’s apartment.
O’Rourke went into the office late the next morning.
He had just won his congressional seat the previous week and was coming in to go over some transition notes with Senator Olson. Michael entered the office with no idea that his friend had been killed. The office personnel were gathered in the reception area hugging each other and crying when Michael walked through the door. O’Rourke stood in shock while one of the secretaries told him the news. Michael looked around the room at all of the people trying to comfort one another and instinctively withdrew. He backed out of the office and left the building. When he got outside, he headed for the Mall and walked westward, passing the Smithsonian and the Washington Monument. Walking slowly, his mind flooded with memories of his friend and his parents.
After passing the Reflecting Pool, he reached the Lincoln Memorial and stopped. He stood and stared back at the Capitol for a long time.
O’Rourke stared at the large rotunda and tried to grasp how a person could be shot and killed so close to the heart of the government of the United States of America. He sat on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial staring at the Capitol, trying to make sense of a senseless death, trying to understand what was happening to America, trying to understand why someone like Mark Coleman, who had worked so hard, who lived honestly, whose whole life was ahead of him, could be snuffed out by a worthless crack addict. O’Rourke thought of all the meetings he’d sat in where fat-cat Senators and
Congressman threw around billions of tax dollars as if it were a Monopoly game-the money always going to support some special-interest group whose endorsement would be needed in the next election. When the subject of crime came up, it was talked about with enthusiasm and vigor, especially when the press was around, but behind the closed doors
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of committee meetings the politicians were always more willing to spend money on farm subsidies or defense spending than crime. The reality of life had smacked O’Rourke harshly in the face that day. He looked at Washington and knew there was no way he could make a difference. The corruption of the system had become too entrenched, and even if there were thirty other Congressman just like him, they couldn’t make a dent. The old boys controlled the committees and with that the legislative agenda and the purse strings.
O’Rourke had decided at that moment, one year earlier, as he looked at the large dome of the Capitol, that he was done with Washington. If he couldn’t make a difference, he didn’t want to be a witness and accessory to the corruption of Washington politics. The hell if he was going to stay in this town and turn into one of them. Washington was built on a swamp, and as far as Michael was concerned, it was still a swamp. As O’Rourke turned onto Wisconsin Avenue, his mind returned to the present. He noted for the first time since taking office that real
