bigger problem on our hands.” With raised eyebrows Coleman asked, “Who has decided to join the fight?”
Nance sat across the coffee table from Arthur as the fire burned brightly, casting a dark shadow of their figures against the far wall of the large study. They were both smiling, holding their warm snifters of cognac gently in their hands. The grandfather
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clock in the far corner started its first of twelve chimes, and Nance swirled the glass under his nose. They were both wearing their standard dark Brooks Brothers suits. Nance took a light sip and let it rest on hispalate before swallowing. “The FBI has no idea,” said
Nance.
“But the President has ordered the CIA and the NSA to get involved in the investigation.” Arthur lowered his glass and raised an eyebrow.
“Really … that surprises me. How did you advise him?”
“I said nothing. Stu is trying to get him to rethink the situation, but he’s having a hard time getting him to calm down. He’s extremely upset about Olson.” Arthur tilted his head back and reflected for a moment. “I don’t think it will affect us. After tomorrow we will be done.” Arthur smelled his cognac but did not drink it. “How is Garret holding up?”
“He’s nervous.” Arthur raised his left eyebrow. “Please, don’t tell me he’s feeling guilty.”
“No, he says he doesn’t care what we do just so long as he isn’t caught.” Arthur smiled and said, “I read him right from the beginning.
He’ll keep his mouth shut.”
“If he doesn’t have a nervous breakdown in the process.”
“Don’t worry, after tomorrow he can relax, and we’ll both have what we want.
Remind Mr. Garret to push the President toward taking a tougher stance against these terrorists. It will help him look better in the polls. The people are yearning for security right now, and after one more assassination they’ll greet a suspension of rights with open arms.”
Arthur gracefully stood and opened the cherry-wood humidor on the table, offering a cigar to Nance. “Let’s step out on the veranda and continue this conversation over a nice cigar, some good cognac, and a majestic view.” The two stood, gently cradling their snifters, and moved from the study into the dark night.
Tuesday Evening, Fairfax, Virginia Congressman Burt Turnquist’s century-old, plantation-style house sat on a beautiful two-and-a-half-acre, wooded lot in an exclusive but low-key neighborhood. A single narrow, winding road cut through the rolling hills with no streetlights to show the way. In late fall, darkness fell on the Eastern seaboard around 5:30 P.M. The moon was finishing a cycle and was showing only a slight sliver of white. The towering old trees and a lack of moonlight gave the neighborhood a deep, dark look.
The Congressman was in his second-floor study, feeling alone and isolated.
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His wife was on a business trip out of town and wouldn’t be back until tomorrow. His closest colleague had been blown to bits the previous afternoon, and he had four complete strangers standing watch over him.
In all his years as a United States Congressman, he had never felt threatened. Even after Downs, Koslowski, and Fitzgerald were killed, he thought he was safe. Turnquist didn’t tell anyone other than his wife, but he could understand why someone would want to kill them. He had thought about it many times since arriving in Washington eighteen years earlier. In short, they were not good men. They had their petty personal agendas and were more concerned with holding on to their positions of power than doing what was right. Year after year they said they were for benevolent change, and then behind the closed doors of their committees they blocked the very reforms they had espoused while running for reelection. Turnquist was not sad to see them gone, but Erik Olson was a different story. Olson was a good friend. They had fought so many battles together, working behind the scenes trying to bring the two parties to a middle ground, Olson in the Senate and Turnquist in the House. Olson had been a source of strength, always helping him steer a safe course through the often dangerous game of politics, prodding him not to give up, advising him on professional as well as personal issues.
Turnquist had warned Olson against helping the President form the new bipartisan coalition in the wake of the assassinations. Turnquist told him that although the deaths of
Koslowski, Fitzgerald, Downs, and Basset were a tragedy, maybe some good could come from them. Maybe they could finally pass the reforms they had worked so hard for. The always principled Olson told Turnquist there was no room for anarchy in a democracy.
Turnquist had reminded his friend of the obvious historical fact that America had come into existence through a bloody revolution.
Turnquist looked down at his journal and struggled to record his thoughts. He was trying to think of what to say at Olson’s funeral.
Writer’s block seized him, and he looked out the window, wishing his wife were home. He couldn’t see the U.S. marshal standing watch in his front yard, but he knew he was there. They had guarded him day and night for over a week, and the Congressman couldn’t decide if they made him feel secure or nervous. Four U.S. marshals were currently on watch at the Turnquist house. They were two hours into a twelve-hour watch that had started at 5 P.M. Three of the four marshals were outside: one by the back door, one by the front porch, and the third sitting in a sedan at the end of the Congressman’s long driveway. The fourth marshal was posted inside the house at the foot of the stairs that led to the second floor. They were more alert than they had been during the previous week’s watch. The fiery deaths of the four Secret Service agents the day before reminded them that they were also targets. The neighborhood that the Congressman lived in hadn’t changed much in the last fifty years.
The lots were woodsy and large. Separating the Congressman’s land from his neighbor’s behind him was a small creek that ran between the two properties. Just on the other side of the creek, about fifty yards from the house, a man peered out from behind a
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tree with a pair of night-vision goggles. The goggles cut through the dark forest and focused in on the marshal standing guard by Turnquist’s back door. The ominous watcher was covered from head to toe in black, and his face
