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Congressman getting killed, he looked at the case with more detachment. McMahon was immersed in a vivid dream when a noise startled him. It took a moment for him to realize he was in his office and it was his phone, not his alarm clock, that was making the irritating noise.
His head snapped up, and he lurched for the receiver. “Hello.”
Michael was sitting in the back of the BMW as Coleman navigated the narrow residential streets of Adams Morgan. Next to O’Rourke on the backseat was a mobile scramble phone that Coleman had purchased through a third party in Taiwan three months earlier. The secure phone was mounted in a leather briefcase. Attached to the receiver was a voice modulator that converted Michael’s voice into generic electronic tones.
The phone was touted as being trace-proof and could be used stationary, but neither
O’Rourke nor Coleman was willing to trust it completely, so they stayed mobile when using it. “Special Agent McMahon?” asked Michael. McMahon went rigid upon hearing the electronic voice. Before responding, he pressed a button next to the phone starting a trace on the incoming call. Hesitatingly he said, “Yes, this is he.”
“I will assume you are recording and tracing this call, so I’ll be brief. The people that killed Senator Fitzgerald, Congressman Koslowski, Senator Downs, and Congressman
Basset did not kill Senator Olson, Congressman Turnquist, and their bodyguards.” There were several seconds of silence on the line while McMahon tried to grasp what he had just heard. “I’m not sure I follow you.”
“There is a second group of killers. A group that killed Olson, Turnquist, and their bodyguards.”
“Why should I believe you?”
Michael had anticipated McMahon’s pessimism and had asked Coleman for some bits of information that would give the call credence. “We let Burmiester live.” McMahon thought about the old man who lived across the street from Congressman Koslowski. The man they had found drugged and tied up the morning of the first three assassinations. “A
lot of people know about Burmiester. That doesn’t prove anything.” McMahon was trying to stall and give the computers time to trace the call.
“Mr. McMahon, we do not kill Secret Service agents and U.S. Marshals.
As we stated in the last message we left for you, we have a deep respect for members of the law enforcement community. Our fight is with the politicians, not you.”
“That’s where you’re wrong-” Michael cut him off. “Ask yourself one question. If we were willing to kill four Secret Service agents to get at Olson and four U.S. marshals to get at Turnquist, why wouldn’t we have blown the President out of the sky last Friday?”
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O’Rourke let the question hang in the air and then said, “The answer is that we didn’t kill
Olson and Turnquist. Someone else did.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because we don’t want to see innocent people die.”
“And Basset and the others were guilty?” O’Rourke looked at his watch.
“Mr. McMahon, I don’t have time to be drawn into a debate with you right now, so listen carefully. I don’t know who would want to kill Turnquist and Olson or why, and
I’m really not in a position to find out. All I know is that they’ve killed eight Federal law enforcement officers, and they’ll probably kill more if you don’t stop them.”
“And what about you?
Are you done killing?”
“Yes.” McMahon started to speak, but the line went dead.
ROACH’S LIMO PULLED UP IN FRONT OF THE WEST EXECUTIVE
ENTRANCE of the White House, and the director and McMahon rushed to the door.
They were almost twenty minutes late. Jack Lortch was waiting for them and ushered them quickly past the security checkpoint and to the Situation Room. The President was speaking and stopped when they entered. Everyone turned and looked at Roach and
McMahon as they took their seats. “I apologize for being late, Mr. President,” said
Roach.
“There was a last-minute development we had to take care of.”
President Stevens ignored the explanation and looked back at Mike Nance. The attendees were CIA director Stansfield, Secret Service director Tracy, Secretary of
Defense Elliot, Joint Chief general Flood, and Stu Garret.
Nance said from the far end of the table, “As you were saying, Mr. President.”
“Obviously, the FBI and the Secret Service can’t guarantee the safety of our
Congressman and Senators. Over the last two days my phone has been ringing off the hook. Every politician in this town is demanding that they be given more protection, and
I don’t blame them.
It’s bad enough that we can’t catch these terrorists, but it’s inexcusable that we can’t stop them from killing.”
