Term Limits (14 page)

Before the president could answer, Nance spoke. “Right now, we are not at liberty to discuss that information. The lead is still being investigated.”

Instead of responding, Roach stared at the president and thought to himself, What are these guys up to?

Nance continued, “The information will be passed on to you as soon as it can be verified. The people who are looking into this want to be very careful that they don't compromise any assets by moving too quickly.”

Roach thought to himself, You bet your ass you'll pass it on to me, or you'll find a subpoena sitting on your desk. The director shifted his gaze away from the president and back to Nance. “Who is investigating it?”

“I can't say anything just yet. It's a strange situation that I really can't go into.”

Roach looked over at McMahon and they both thought the same thing. You can tell the entire nation on TV, but you can't discuss it with the director of the FBI.

Garret sensed they weren't buying Nance's excuse, so he jumped into the fray. “Director Roach, you seem as if you doubt us. Don't you think the fact that these men were murdered on the eve of the passage of the president's budget is more than just a mere coincidence?”

“I think the timing of the murders is directly related to the president's budget,” answered Roach, the concession catching Garret off-balance.

“So you do think there's a good chance this letter is meant to mislead us?” Garret asked.

“I think anything is possible at this point. Agent McMahon is investigating several leads that involve the timing of the murders.”

Garret leaned forward and looked at McMahon. “What type of leads are you pursuing?”

“I am not at liberty to discuss them at this point. We are still in the early stages of running them down.”

Garret sat back and quietly cursed himself for being suckered into the trap.

“Special Agent McMahon, I understand that whatever leads you have may not be very solid right now, but I would still like to hear them,” the president said as he watched McMahon look to Roach.

“Come now, gentlemen. Whatever is said in this office will stay in this office,” the president continued.

McMahon almost laughed out loud but suppressed the desire. “Mr. President, if you'd please pardon my candor, you appeared on national television last night and told the entire country you had reason to believe that the letter is a piece of disinformation. Now, I can only assume that for you to say something like that, you must have some pretty solid facts regarding the authenticity of that letter… facts that you are not willing to pass on to us, the people who are in charge of investigating these murders. For now, we have agreed to respect your decision to not share that information. I would hope that you would also understand our position and
give us some time to run these leads down before we pass our information on to you.”

Everyone was silent while the two sides thought about the hand McMahon had just played. Garret was furious. Who in the fuck did this no-name agent think he was, coming into the Oval Office and denying the president information?

Nance, on the other hand, admired the move. In light of the position he had just taken, they had no choice but to accept McMahon's excuse.

The maneuver had been planned by Roach and McMahon before they left the Hoover Building, and now it was the director's turn. “Mr. President, I realize things were very tense and confusing last night, but during your speech you said the Bureau told you there was a good chance the letter was a piece of disinformation.”

“I'll take the blame for that,” Garret blurted out. “I was in charge of editing the speech and I missed it. Sorry.” Garret's apology smacked of blatant insincerity.

Roach looked at Garret for a moment and then back to the president. “You also quoted me as saying that I guaranteed the perpetrators would be caught and brought to justice.”

Again, Garret fielded the question. “That was my fault also. I should have caught it. We meant it to sound more general, but it came out sounding like a direct quote. I apologize.”

Roach nodded his head in a feigned acknowledgment of Garret's apology. He knew they would lie. He just wanted to see how they would do it. Roach looked away from Garret. It was time to get down to
important matters. “Sir, my main concern right now is not the authenticity of the letter; it is the security of the remaining five hundred and thirty-two senators and congressmen. The letter clearly states that if these reforms are not acted on, this group will kill more politicians. They have even made a direct threat to you, sir. For now, we have to assume the letter is real and that they will strike again. We have to arrange for protection.” The president, Nance, and Garret nodded their heads in agreement. “I have spoken with Director Tracy of the Secret Service, and most of the chiefs of the metro-area police departments. We are meeting this afternoon to discuss additional security measures. The tab for this protection, sir, is going to be rather large. I am going to need you to authorize special funding.”

“Don't worry about the money. Whatever it costs will be taken care of.” The president waved his hand in the air emphasizing that money was the least of their concerns. “How are you planning on handling the security?”

“Well, Director Tracy and I have agreed that initially we should concentrate on giving the best security to the senior-ranking members of both the House and the Senate. He and I are working on pulling agents out of the field so they can provide personal protection for the ranking members. The presidential security detail will not be weakened. If anything, Director Tracy is thinking about adding more agents. This afternoon, we will determine how many of the ranking members we can protect with just the agents from the FBI and Secret Service. When we run out of agents, we will have to
start using local police officers for the protection of the less senior members. We are also looking at using federal marshals, Treasury agents, and various military units. Director Tracy has also recommended that we shut down Lafayette Park and the streets surrounding the Capitol and the House and Senate office buildings. The White House is very secure, but the same cannot be said of the Capitol and the House and Senate office buildings. To bolster the security in and around the Capitol we are considering moving in a light armored division from the Army.”

Garret scoffed and shook his head vigorously. “A light armored division? Are you talking just personnel or are you talking equipment also?”

“Equipment and personnel,” Roach responded in an even tone.

“You mean to tell me you're going to surround the Capitol with tanks?”

“No, with Humvees, armored personnel carriers, and Bradley fighting vehicles.”

“Like I said, you're going to surround the Capitol with tanks.”

“No, light armored divisions don't have tanks. That would be an armored division.”

“I know the difference,” Garret said in a mocking tone. “But the average American doesn't.” Garret looked to the president and said, “I think we're going a little overboard here. We can't have tanks driving down the streets of Washington, D.C. We'll look like the fucking Chinese, for Christ's sake.”

The president paused while he digested Garret's comments. “I agree with Stu. For now let's try to
keep things as normal looking as possible. I don't want the press and the American people to think we're panicking. Besides, these killers would have to be suicidal to try something at the Capitol.”

Roach nodded his head in compliance and then went on. The meeting lasted for another ten minutes while Roach continued to give them a broad overview of the extra security measures. When he was done, the president walked them to the door and thanked them for coming.

Roach and McMahon did not say a word until they climbed into the limo. Once the doors closed, Roach immediately started to shake his head in disapproval. He did not swear but wanted to. Roach liked to stay on a nice, even keel, while McMahon was just the opposite.

“What a bunch of assholes.”

“I take it you didn't believe a word of their story,” Roach said.

“Are you kidding me? He gets on national TV and announces to the country that he believes the letter is phony, but he won't tell the director of the FBI or the agent running the investigation where he got the information. It's a crock of shit.”

“Why would he make it up if it's obviously a lie? If he has any information, he will have to come forward with it.”

“You're damn right he will. If he doesn't, we'll hit him with a subpoena and an obstruction of justice charge. This is our baby, not the NSA's or the CIA's. This is domestic and it's our jurisdiction,” McMahon said.

“Yeah, that's what worries me. They know they
have to hand over what they've got.” Roach paused and looked out the window. “So, what are they up to?”

“I have no idea. Politics is your department, but if they're still proclaiming this letter is fake two days from now and they haven't handed anything over to us, I'd get the Justice Department involved.”

AFTER LEAVING HIS MEETING AT THE WHITE House, McMahon drove out to the CIA's headquarters in Langley, Virginia, and picked up Dr. Kennedy. McMahon had asked her the previous evening to accompany him for the interview with Gus Mitchell, the former Delta Force commando. For the early part of the drive down to the FBI Academy, the conversation centered on the investigation and Kennedy's theory of who the killers were. As Kennedy continued to articulate her points, McMahon couldn't help but wonder where this woman had come from. What had possessed her to join one of the most exclusive communities in government? It was obvious that with her brains, understated savvy, and the way she carried herself,
she could have entered any profession and been extremely successful.

McMahon waited for a pause in the conversation. “I hope you don't mind me asking, but how did you end up in the employment of the CIA?”

Kennedy looked out the window of the government-issue Ford and said, “My father used to work for the State Department. Throughout most of his career he was stationed in the Middle East. He married my mother, who was Jordanian, and I grew up in a bilingual household.” Kennedy looked over at McMahon. “There aren't a lot of Americans who are fluent in Arabic and who understand the customs and history of the area.”

McMahon nodded his understanding. “You must have been a very highly sought after commodity.”

“I suppose you could say that.”

McMahon checked his side mirror and changed lanes. “You said your father used to work for the State Department. Is he retired?”

“No, he passed away.”

“I'm sorry to hear that.”

Kennedy clutched her purse with both hands. “Thank you.” She looked at McMahon. “It was a long time ago, almost twenty years.” Her eyes squinted while she thought about how long it had been. “It doesn't seem like it happened that long ago.”

“He must have been pretty young. How did he die? If you don't mind me asking.”

Kennedy shook her head. “He was stationed at our embassy in Beirut and was killed by a car bomb.”

McMahon cringed. What a shitty way to go. “That must have been hard. You had to have been in your teens.”

“Yeah, it wasn't the best time of my life, but I have a lot to be thankful for. My mother and I are very close. I have a great brother and four-year-old son whom I absolutely adore.” Kennedy gave McMahon the smile of a proud parent.

McMahon smiled back while the pieces fell into place. The motivation of losing a parent to terrorism was more than enough of a reason to devote one's life to the fight against it. “What's your little boy's name?”

“Tommy.” Kennedy fished a picture out of her purse and showed it to McMahon.

“He's a good-looking little fella. I assume he looks like his father.”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“Sore subject?”

“The divorce was finalized about seven months ago. How about you, any wife or children?”

“None that I know of,” McMahon said with a grin. “I was married once. It was a mistake. I was too young, I drank too much, and I was married to my job.”

“The Bureau?” asked Kennedy. McMahon nodded. “Never found the time to remarry?”

“Not with this job. I can barely take care of myself.”

“I read your file. It looks like you've been pretty busy over the years.”

McMahon gave the young doctor a sideways glance. “You read my file?”

Kennedy shrugged her shoulders. “I read a lot of files.”

“So do I. I'll have to make it a point to read yours when I have the chance.”

Kennedy smiled. “Don't waste your time. It's pretty boring stuff.”

“I'll bet,” replied a grinning McMahon.

A short while later they pulled up to the guard post at the FBI Academy. McMahon and Kennedy showed their identification and were admitted. McMahon drove the car through the large campus and parked in front of a small office building by the firearms range.

Mitchell's office was located on the first floor. When they arrived, Mitchell was sitting with his feet up on the desk, reading a magazine. He was wearing black combat boots and dark blue coveralls. Over the left breast of the coveralls,
Instructor
was embroidered in yellow, and across the back in large letters were the initials
FBI.

Mitchell jumped to his feet and said, “Skip, it's great to see you. You don't get down here enough, now that you're a big shot.”

McMahon shook Mitchell's hand but ignored the friendly needling. He turned to Kennedy and said, “Gus, meet Dr. Irene Kennedy.”

“It's nice to meet you, Dr. Kennedy. You work at Langley, correct?”

“Yes.” Kennedy smiled. “Please call me Irene.”

“Irene it is.” Mitchell motioned for his guests to follow him. “There's a small conference room down the hall. Let's use that instead. My office is a little cramped for the three of us. Can I get either of you
some coffee?” Mitchell looked to Kennedy first, as his early years as a Southern gentleman had taught him.