“Nope. I’ll be honest with you, Michael. I would like to have Arthur Higgins killed.
There was a time when he was good for our country, but for the last fifteen years he’s been out of control. When he left the Agency, he was warned to stay out of the intelligence business. Since then he has been cautioned by Stansfield more than once to keep his nose out of the Agency’s business.
I hesitate to take this to Director Stansfield for the reasons I already gave and for the fact that Arthur has a lot of contacts at the National Security Agency. If anything happens to Arthur, they will suspect the CIA.” Augie looked up at the sky for a second. “As to why I’m dumping this on your lap. well и . . you gave him the opportunity to kill Olson and Turnquist, and in my book that means you should be the one to stop him.” Michael stared unwaveringly at Augie and said, “I did nothing. I’m just trying to clean up the mess.”
Augie looked at Seamus.
“This is your doing?”
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“Yes. Can I count on you to stay quiet?”
“Yes. I happen to think that what you’re doing is about twenty years overdue.”
The old spy stuck his hands under his armpits. “We’ve killed politicians in other countries that were far less of a threat to our national security than our own leaders. Don’t you think that during all my years as a covert-operations specialist I thought about doing in America what I was doing abroad?” Michael nodded, remembering that Scott Coleman had said the exact same thing to him a year ago. Michael changed the subject back to
Higgins. “What makes you think we can get to Arthur?”
“I assume that you have some professionals helping you.” Augie paused and held up his hands. “I don’t want to know who they are or what their background is. The less I
know about that the better. If they would kill Fitzgerald, Downs, Koslowski, and Basset and vanish without a trace, I assume they’re pretty good. Arthur has one habit that makes him vulnerable. You’ll find it in the file.” Michael held up the file. “I’m interested to see what’s in here.”
“I would urge you not to waste any time. Arthur may not be done killing.”
MCMAHON WAS BACK IN THE JOINT SPECIAL OPERATIONS COMMAND’S
conference room at the Pentagon, eating a micro-waved container of lasagna that was more than a little salty. His entire afternoon had been spent meeting with Harvey Wilcox, the deputy director of the FBI’s Counterterrorism Department; Madeline Nanny, the deputy director of the FBI’s Counter Espionage Department; and Director Roach. Both departments had the equipment and personnel to run surveillance on the fourteen black former commandos who were living in the D.C. metro area. Neither Roach nor McMahon had to ask for the full cooperation of the two deputy directors. Both understood the priority of the task that had been handed to them. Nanny had more available assets, so she took nine of the fourteen dossiers and Wilcox took the other five. They estimated they could initiate surveillance during the next twenty-four hours, and depending on the individual movements of the suspects, they could have airtight surveillance established within seventy-two hours. The total number of agents to be involved was calculated at
140. McMahon finished explaining the details of the surveillance to Kennedy and
General Heaney right about the time he finished eating the lasagna that he knew would give him heartburn. He slid the Styrofoam box off to the side and asked General Heaney if he had any Tums. The general produced a roll and tossed it across the table. A moment later one of the general’s aides entered the room and handed him a computer printout and a cover sheet.
Heaney thanked the young officer and glanced over the cover sheet.
“Our computer ran a search for any former commandos living within a hundred miles of Washington, D.C. It turned up ninety-four SEALS, eighty-one Green Berets, and sixty-eight Delta Force commandos.”
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McMahon’s face twisted into a painful look. “That’s over two hundred possible suspects.”
“Yes, but that was before we directed the computer to narrow the search to only commandos that had served with the fourteen black commandos.”
“What did that bring the numbers down to?” The general glanced down at the sheet.
“Twenty-six Green Berets and nineteen Deltas.” Kennedy peered over the top of her glasses. “What happened to all the SEALS?”
The general read over the summary for a moment. “There are only two former
SEALS who fit the description of the assassin that killed Downs, and they both live in
San Diego.” While Kennedy wrestled with that piece of information, McMahon asked, “Where are we going to get the resources to tail forty-five people around the clock?”
Looking to Kennedy, he asked, “Irene, do you have the manpower to handle this?”
Kennedy was staring off into space, and McMahon repeated the question.
Kennedy still didn’t answer so McMahon snapped his fingers. “Earth to Irene, come in.”
Kennedy’s eyes came back into focus. “Excuse me.”
“Do you need a break?”
“No, I’m fine. I was just thinking about something else.” McMahon repeated, “Do you have the assets to conduct around-the-clock surveillance on forty-five suspects?”
“Yes.”
“How?” asked McMahon with a disbelieving look on his face. Kennedy started to give her answer, then stopped,
