lips. Liz pulled away and asked, “What are you going to do?”
“I’m not sure.”
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“I think you should go to the FBI.”
“I need to talk to him first.” Liz sat up. “Who is this guy?”
“I’m not dragging you any further into this thing.”
“You’re not dragging me anywhere. I want to know.” Michael shook his head. “You know enough, trust me.”
“I can understand your not wanting to tell me, but I think you should tell the FBI
immediately. You owe it to Erik.”
“I’m going to meet with him first.” Liz put both hands on his chest and pushed him back. “No you’re not! I will not allow it!” Michael grabbed her wrists and said, “Don’t worry, Liz. I’ll be fine.”
Scarlatti became angry. “Don’t give me that Marine Corps macho bullshit! Whoever this guy is, he’s a cold- blooded murderer and I don’t want you meeting him alone.” Liz looked into his eyes and knew she wasn’t getting through.
“If you leave this house, I’m calling the FBI.” Michael placed her hands together and looked her softly in the eyes. “Elizabeth, this man thinks of me as a brother. He would never do anything to harm me.”
Liz yanked her hands away. “You are not going to be able to change my mind on this, Michael. You either tell me who he is or I’m calling the FBI.” Michael thought about it for a full minute and realized they were at an impasse. “You have to promise me that under no circumstances и . .
Never ever. will you reveal his name.” Liz started to protest, but Michael cut her off.
“No negotiating, Liz. If you want to know, you make the promise … and if you ever break it, I will walk out of your life and never speak to you again.” Scarlatti swallowed deeply, the last part of the comment causing a hollow feeling to develop in her stomach.
“All right, I promise.” Michael stood and started to pace in front of the window. “You’ve met him before. twice. His name is Scott Coleman.”
Michael stopped to gauge Liz’s reaction. With eyes open wide she said, “The former
Navy SEAL? The guy you go hunting with all the time?”
Michael nodded yes. “Why? Why would he do all of this. He seems so normal.”
“He is normal. As normal as a SEAL can be, that is. As to the ‘why’ part of your question…” Michael shook his head. “That’s another can of worms, and when I say I can’t tell you about it, I am deathly serious. If I would have kept that secret to myself a year ago, none of this would have ever happened.” Garret was nervous. Things were happening too fast and Stevens’s new unmanageable attitude was only making things
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worse. Garret wasn’t against using the CIA and NSA, just as long as they did it in a way that wouldn’t come back to haunt them down the road. He stabbed out his half-finished cigarette and headed off down the hall. Without knocking, he entered Ted Hopkinson’s office and stood over his desk. Hopkinson was talking on the phone, and Garret signaled for him to end the conversation. Hopkinson cut the other person off in mid-sentence and told her he’d have to call back.
As soon as Hopkinson hung up. Garret set a piece of paper in front of him. Four names were on it. Hopkinson looked at the names and then up at his boss.
“Am I supposed to know who these people are?”
“No, but by tomorrow morning I expect you to know their life stories.”
“Who are they?”
“They are the four Secret Service agents who were blown up with Olson today.”
“And what do you want me to do with the information?”
“We’ve had polls telling us that as much as forty-two percent of the public believes the loss of Fitzgerald, Downs, Koslowski, and Basset may be worth it if it forces
Washington to get spending under control.
Most of them are saying that because they hate politicians. Well, let’s see how many of them still feel that way when they’re introduced to these four men and their families. I
want you to find out what high schools they went to, where their parents live, where they were married, where their kids go to school. I want you to find out everything you can about them. When you’re done, we’ll give it to the right people, and by the end of the week you won’t be able to pick up the paper or turn on the TV without seeing or hearing about these guys and their families. By next Monday I want to see that forty-two percent cut down to single digits.”
Scott Coleman left his apartment and went to the basement before leaving. Out on the front stoop he grabbed a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket and lit one. As always, he puffed on it but did not take the smoke into his lungs. Tilting his head up, he exhaled the smoke and looked at the rooftop and windows of the apartment building across the street.
Next, he took a mental inventory of all the cars parked on the block, paying special attention to any vans he hadn’t seen before.
Last night when he went out, he had headed to the east. Tonight he would head west.
Throwing his cigarette to the ground, he stomped it out with his boot and casually trotted down the steps. He
