to the media over the last week. If you continue to label us as terrorists and the President as the noble defender of the Constitution, you will die. This is our last warning. No matter what they tell you, Mr. President, the Secret Service cannot protect
130
you from us. They can make our job more difficult, but they cannot stop us from ending your life. This is your last warning.”
Marine One landed on the helicopter pad at Camp David, and a pale-faced President
Stevens was draped in his bulletproof trench coat and rushed into a waiting Suburban.
The President sat in the backseat in between two Secret Service agents. No one spoke as the tan truck sped up the narrow, tree lined path. The Suburban stopped in front of the cabin, and again Stevens was rushed inside. Two of the agents went inside with him, and the other four took up posts outside.
The President stood in the main room and looked at the most senior agent. “Where is
Mr. Garret?”
“He’s being brought in another truck.” There was more awkward silence as the agents averted their eyes from the President’s. Again Stevens looked to the senior agent and asked, “How did they know which helicopter I was on?”
“We don’t know, sir.” Stevens said nothing; he gave no look or expression of emotion. He continued to stand in the midst of his protectors for another minute, then without saying a word he walked in between them and down the hallway. The agents followed. Stevens entered his bedroom and turned to close the door behind him. The two
Secret Service agents came to an abrupt halt. The President held up his hand.
“I want to be alone.” The agents nodded respectfully and Stevens closed the door.
Walking across the room, he took off his jacket and threw it on the bed. With several yanks back and forth, his tie came loose and dropped to the floor. He stood leaning over the dresser staring into the large mirror on the wall. The reality of what had almost happened was starting to sink in. He felt a cold chill shoot up his spine, and his entire body shuddered. Standing up straight, he quickly walked over to the wet bar, grabbed a thick glass tumbler, loaded it with ice, and filled it to the brim with vodka. After taking a large gulp of the cold, clear liquid, he walked over to the fireplace and noticed that it was stocked with wood and kindling. Stevens set his drink down on the mantel and picked up a box of long matches sitting in a basket next to the hearth. Grabbing one of the twelve-inch matchsticks, he struck it across the coarse strip on the side of the box. The matchstick broke in half, and Stevens tried again, this time holding the match closer to the tip.
The red tip sparked and then burst into flames. Stevens waited until the wood stem caught fire, then stuck the long match under the logs, lighting the dry pieces of kindling.
The fire caught quickly and he pulled up a chair to watch the flames spread. Sliding off his loafers, he placed his feet on the hearth and took a deep breath. The warmth of the fire helped him relax and momentarily forget about the afternoon’s life-threatening events. He stared into the fire and watched it burst into a full blaze as the white bark on the birch logs crackled and curled front the flames. The images of the helicopter ride began to surface again, and he took another gulp from his drink. But still he saw the flares
131
shooting out of the helicopter next to them, the violent jerking of the craft as it banked and then dropped like a rock, pulling up just short of the river’s water, Stu Garret screaming and demanding to know what was going on, the escorts scattering and the red streaks shooting up in front of them. Stevens became unsteady again, and he started to shake. He grabbed his drink with both hands to keep it from spilling, his body trembling as he pulled the glass to his lips with both hands wrapped tightly around it. He took four large gulps, finishing the rest of the vodka, and stood to pour another. As he walked to the bar, the murders of Basset and the others flashed sharply across his mind, and he realized for the first time just how vulnerable he was.
The crystal tumbler with the Presidential seal engraved on the side slipped from his hand and shattered on the stone floor. Stevens continued to the bar and started to pour another drink, the glass neck of the vodka bottle clanging off the rim of the tumbler as his hands continued to shake uncontrollably. Garret arrived at the main cabin just minutes after the President and went straight to the conference room. He grabbed the nearest phone and punched in the number for Ted Hopkinson’s office. After several rings
Hopkinson’s secretary answered and Garret barked, “Get me Ted!” As each second passed, Garret became more and more irritated. With sweat forming on his forehead, he gripped the phone tighter and tighter. According to Garret’s watch, which he looked at about every five seconds, he had been on hold for two minutes and thirteen seconds when
Hopkinson finally came on the line. “Where in the hell have you been?” Garret spat into the phone.
“Stu, it’s a zoo around here! The press is crawling all over the place. They want to know what the hell is going on. A couple of them just asked me if the President is dead!”
Shit. “Stu, we’ve got to get control of this thing!” I know, .just shut up for a minute while
I think of the best way to handle it.”
There was a moment of silence while Garret scrambled to come up with a plan of action. “We’re going to have to put him on TV. Grab a cameraman and a reporter from the press pool and get your ass up here.”
“I can’t.
The Secret Service has shut the compound down. They’re not letting anyone come or go.” Garret screamed into the phone, “Screw the damn Secret Service. Thanks to those idiots I almost got my ass blown out of the sky twenty minutes ago. You find Lortch and tell him I said if he wants to keep his job to get a chopper for you pronto. If he gives you any shit, find Mike Nance and have him get one from the Pentagon.
Get moving!”
“What are we going to have him say to the press?”
“Goddamn it, Ted, do I have to do everything around here! You’re the damn communications director! You’re paid to figure out what he says to the press! Get
