game by his own rules.
Director Roach’s limousine pulled up in front of the Hyatt hotel at 6:55 A.M. He was there to give a brief speech to the National Convention of Police Chiefs. Because of the assassinations, he had considered having one of his deputies handle the speech, but after talking to Stansfield, he decided to give it himself.
He’d just finished scanning a Washington Reader article stating that the FBI thought there was a conspiracy behind the murders. As his bodyguards opened the door of the limo, a small mob of about eight reporters and cameramen closed in. Roach stepped out of the limo and said hello to the group. A tall, blond-haired woman got to him first.
“Director Roach, could you please tell us what information the FBI has discovered that would lead you to believe the letter sent to the media after the killings is a cover for the real reason Senator Downs, Senator Fitzgerald, and Congressman Koslowski were killed?” To the surprise of Roach’s bodyguards, their boss stopped to answer the question.
The reporters jostled each other to get their mikes in Roach’s face. “As of right now, we believe that letter to be sincere and are very concerned about the possibility of other assassinations.”
A tall male reporter blurted out the next question. “Director Roach, do you think the murders were committed in an attempt to derail President Stevens’s budget?”
“No, I do not. We think the assassinations took place on the eve of the budget vote because it guaranteed the assassins that Congressman Koslowski, Senator Downs, and
Senator Fitzgerald would be in town.
“I don’t understand. The White House has been reporting that the FBI believes the murders were committed to derail the President’s budget,” said a somewhat confused reporter. “Those reports are incorrect.”
Before another question could be asked, Roach turned and entered the hotel.
Within minutes, his comments were being played as the lead story on every morning network news show. Without knocking, Garret opened the door to Nance’s office and barged in. Nance glanced up from his TV, which was showing the taped interview of
Roach. “What in the hell is he doing?” asked Garret as he pointed at the TV.
Nance turned his head away from the TV. “Relax, Stu, this was expected. You didn’t really think he would sit there and let us use him, did you?”
“Hell no, but I at least thought he’d come to us, not go to the press,” Garret said, glaring at the TV. “Calm down, we already got what we wanted. The polls have swung
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ten points in our favor. The people think there’s some big conspiracy to ruin the
President. The press loves the story and will run with it, regardless of what Roach says.
We’ll have Moncur release a statement saying it was improperly implied that the FBI
had discovered the information when it was in fact another government agency. They’ll all assume it’s the CIA, and it’ll make the story that much better. Besides, we can use this
‘Roach thing’ to our advantage. He fired the first shot. With a FBI leaks to the right people, the press will be printing stories saying there’s bad blood between Roach and the
White House, and if he doesn’t make some progress in solving these murders, things will get very uncomfortable for him.
Combine that with the fact that our friends in the media will be more than willing to do a butcher job on a saint like Roach, and we’ll have his letter of resignation in our hands by next month.” In a rare moment of’ emotion, Nance smiled at Garret, and the gesture was returned.
THE BELL ATLANTIC VAN WAS PARKED ON NEW HAMPSHIRE AVENUE, A half block from Dupont Circle. The two men in the back checked their makeup and equipment one last time. On top of their Afro wigs they were wearing yellow plastic hard hats. They were also wearing blue coveralls with a Bell Atlantic patch over the left pocket. They nodded to the driver, grabbed their bags, and climbed out of the van.
Casually, they walked down the stairs leading to the Dupont Circle platform of the
D.C. metro.
Upon reaching the platform, they climbed on board the metro and took the red line to
Union Station. They arrived about five minutes later and got off. Threading their way through the other subway riders, they walked to the end of the platform and stepped out onto the small edge running along the side of the tunnel. After about fifty feet they reached a doorway and stopped. The shorter man handed a bag to his accomplice and went to work on the lock. Twenty seconds later they were in. They stepped through the vault door that led to one of the underground tunnel systems that ran beneath
Washington, D.C. The system they had just entered housed mostly phone lines and various utility pipes. The sewers carrying the city’s waste and water runoff were located in another system that was buried even deeper. As they walked through the squared cement tunnel, the taller of the two men had to tilt his head to one side to avoid hitting the lights that were spaced about every fifty feet overhead. They took a series of turns, and after about three minutes they were standing in front of another door.
Again, the shorter of the two went to work on the lock. When he was finished picking it, he opened the door and placed a piece of duct tape over the lock. The two men stepped into the subbasement of a twelve-story office building and let the door close behind them.
The shorter of the two headed for the staircase and disappeared. The second man weaved through the mass of pipes and structural supports until he found what he was looking for.
He pried open the steel access panel to the main duct of the building’s ventilation system
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