deep voice called out from the top of the stairs, “Is everything all right down there?”
Without pause, Alpha called back, “Sorry, sir, I dropped a glass. Can I get you anything?”
“No, that’s all right, I’ll come down. I’m getting a little hungry.”
Turnquist started down the staircase, and Alpha pushed his partner back and out of the way. When the Congressman reached the middle landing, he turned and froze, staring at the man dressed in black. Alpha squeezed the trigger and the barrel jumped. A stream of bullets popped from the end of the silencer and slammed into Congressman Turnquist.
The impact of the bullets sent the Congressman reeling backward and into the wall, where he hung for a moment, pinned by the bullets slamming into his chest. The assassin took his finger off the trigger and Turnquist’s body slid to the ground, leaving a bright red streak on the white wall.
AT ABOUT 7:55 P.M A FAIRFAX POLICE SQUAD ROLLED THROUGH
Congressman Turnquist’s neighborhood. It was part of his regular patrol route, but since the recent flurry of assassinations his duties had shifted from spending his nights writing speeding tickets and nailing drunk drivers to checking up on the various Congressman and Senators who lived in his part of the city. He was getting to know most of the marshals who were assigned to protecting Congressman Turnquist and looked forward to stopping by every hour or so to talk with whoever was sitting in the car at the end of the driveway. As he approached the white sedan, his headlights passed over the car. No one was visible in the front seat, so he shined his spotlight on the car.
The police officer put his squad in park and got out, thinking that whoever was on watch must have fallen asleep. He could appreciate how boring their jobs must be. There were nights when after a full thermos of coffee he could barely stay awake, and he was
178
on the move. These poor guys sat in one place all night. He strode up to the window and looked in. Just as he’d thought, the marshal was lying across the front seat. The cop brought his flashlight up and turned it on. It took him a second to process what he was seeing. His eyes opened wide as he froze in shock at the sight of the bloody body.
After several seconds he grasped the severity of the situation and ran back to his squad to call the dispatcher. Upon receiving the call from the officer at Turnquist’s house, the dispatcher sent two additional squads and an ambulance to the scene. Her next call was to the Fairfax police chief, who directed her to call the FBI. Within two minutes of the patrolman’s finding the marshal’s body, Skip McMahon was on the phone asking for a chopper. He came into the task force’s main conference room and started telling agents whom to call and what to do.
Then, grabbing Jennings and Wardwell, he headed for the roof of the Hoover
Building. Once in the elevator, he pointed at Wardwell and said, “Get ahold of the
Fairfax Police Department and have them patch you through to the officer at Turnquist’s.
Kathy, call the marshals’ office and make sure they know what’s going on and then. no, call the marshals’ office second. First call the Virginia State Patrol and tell them if they spot any cars with multiple males, twenty-five to forty-five, to pull them over for questioning and approach with extreme caution. Have them pass the word on to all the local police departments.” Both agents pulled their digital phones out and started punching away at the number pads. By the time they reached the roof, the blades on the helicopter were just starting to spin. Wardwell tugged on his boss’s sleeve. “Skip, the cop is waiting for backup. He says he hasn’t heard a thing since he arrived.” Wardwell shouted as the helicopter grew louder and louder. “He wants to know what he should do.”
“Tell him to wait for backup and then proceed with caution …. And tell them not to touch anything.” McMahon had an empty feeling in his stomach that they weren’t going to find any survivors at Turnquist’s house. The rotor wash of the props became intense, blowing their hair and ties in every direction. A man in a bright orange jumpsuit waved them toward the open door of the chopper, and with McMahon leading the way, they hustled up the five steps and onto the helipad. Keeping their heads low, they ran under the spinning blades and climbed into the backseat. The chopper lifted off and arched northward before turning back to a southwesterly course, leaving the bright lights of
Washington behind. As they raced toward Fairfax, Virginia, McMahon turned to
Jennings. “How often were the marshals checking in?”
Jennings shouted into McMahon’s ear, “Every half hour.
They made their seven-thirty checkin and were scheduled to check in again at eight.”
“How many marshals were assigned to the Congressman?”
“Four.”
“What’s the ETA for the Quick Response Team?”
179
“When the call went out, most of them were in the lab working on the evidence collected from the bombing yesterday. We’ve got choppers coming in to pick them up on the roof, and their mobile crime lab and heavy equipment should arrive around eight forty-five.” McMahon couldn’t get the vision of a team of commandos assaulting
Turnquist’s house out of his mind. The thought made him think of Irene Kennedy and
General Heaney. He grabbed the digital phone out of his jacket and dialed the direct line to Roach’s office. “Brian, I need you to do me a favor. Get a chopper over to the Pentagon and have it ferry General Heaney and Irene Kennedy out to Turnquist’s.”
“Consider it done. I just activated the Hostage Rescue Team. They’ll be airborne and en route in under five minutes. They should be arriving right behind you. If there’s the slightest sign of these terrorists, I want you to hold tight and wait for them to handle it.”
McMahon doubted the killers were waiting around, but knew Roach had to do things by the book. “Have the HRT stay airborne. if I need them, I’ll call them in.”
