“May I have a can of Coke,” Roach corrected her, and patted her on the head. “Yes, you may have a can of Coke.” Katie snatched the can from the door and scampered out of the kitchen.
A moment later Patty Roach came around the corner. “Brian, I don’t want her drinking a can of soda before mass.”
Without taking his eyes off the TV, Roach replied, “Honey, she’s twelve years old, a little sugar isn’t going to kill her.”
“I’ll try to remember that when she’s bouncing all over the pew in twenty minutes. Come on, turn off that TV. I don’t want to be late.”
“Hold on, I want to watch this for a minute.”
“Brian, I don’t want to be late again this week.”
“Honey, take Katie and get in the car. Tell the guys to get saddled up, and I’ll be out in a minute.” The “guys” Roach was referring to were his personal protection detail, more commonly known as his bodyguards. Patty left the room and Roach turned his attention back to the TV.
The panel on the show consisted of three reporters, one of whom acted as the host. This morning’s special guest, House Speaker Thomas Basset, and the three reporters sat in a semicircle, around a horseshoe news desk. Roach stepped across the room and turned up the volume.
“Speaker Basset, this week was an extremely difficult one for many of us here in the nation’s capital . . . probably more so for you than most. You were very close to these three men. You have worked with them for . . . most of your adult life . . . not always agreeing, but more often than not finding a common ground. How have the events of the last several days affected you?”
Basset shifted in his chair. “They have been, to put it lightly, very difficult. . . . What most people don’t understand is just how tight of a community we are here in Washington. Our wives all know each other, many of our children went to school together, we see each other at the local churches on Sunday, we’re a very tight group. The last three days have been extremely painful.” Basset shook his head and looked away from the camera.
“How have you, personally, taken the deaths of your colleagues?”
“I’m grieving right now . . . there’s a lot of pain. You go to bed one night and wake up the next morning only to find out that three men who you have worked with for over thirty years have all been brutally murdered. It’s shocking. It’s very painful.”
“I know this week is going to be hard for you, but what are your plans for bringing the House back into legislative session?”
“I will take my time to grieve and remember these great statesmen appropriately, and then we will turn to the president for guidance. President Stevens is a very strong leader, and with his help we will move forward and get back to the business of governing this country.”
“Mr. Speaker, everyone is very aware of the letter that was sent to the media by the group claiming responsibility for the murders. There have been some rumors circulating around town regarding the authenticity of this letter. The president even hinted at it in his speech the other night. Can you shed some light on any of these rumors?”
“To the best of our knowledge, the letter was sent by the group that committed the murders. The letter was postmarked the day before the killings and names all three of the deceased. What is in question right now is the actual reason why these murders were committed.”
The host leaned forward. “Do you mean to imply that the murders were not committed for the reasons stated in the letter?”
“That is what we are exploring.”
“What leads you to believe the letter is not what it appears to be?”
“Well, the FBI is very suspicious of the timing of these murders.”
“Why?”
Basset hesitated for a moment. “They are uncertain that the murders were committed solely for the reasons stated in the letter.”
The host became visibly excited as he asked his next question. “What facts have they discovered to back this up?”
“The FBI is being very tight-lipped about this, as I’m sure you can understand. All I know right now is that they have received some information that has led them to believe the murders were committed for reasons other than those stated in the letter.”
Roach looked at the TV and shook his head. “What in the hell are these guys up to?”
The host continued, “What type of information?”
Basset frowned. “I can’t go into it right now.”
One of the other reporters jumped in. “If you can’t tell us what the FBI has learned, can you tell us what they are speculating the real motive to be?”
Basset shifted uneasily in his seat. Garret and the president had briefed him on the plan. He found the possibility of the murders being committed for the purpose of toppling the Stevens administration and the party to be plausible. At this point, in this town, anything could be possible. What he felt uncomfortable doing was intentionally lying about what the FBI believed to be the reason for the murders. But Basset had learned long ago not to probe too deep. It was easier on his conscience to ponder his actions lightly.
With no visible guilt or awkwardness Basset uttered his preplanned response. “The FBI thinks the murders were committed to try and stop the president’s budget from being passed.”
Roach tried to stay calm as he pinched the bridge of his nose tighter and tighter. The program broke away for a commercial and he turned off the TV. As he walked to the door, he asked himself once again, “What in the hell are they up to?”
Eleven miles away, Michael O’Rourke sat in his living room with Liz and Seamus. Seamus had arrived earlier that morning. Michael and Seamus watched the broadcast with irritation while Liz was busy pecking notes into her laptop. She had a column that was supposed to be on her editor’s desk by 5 P.M.
The program came back on the air, and the one woman on the panel started to ask questions. “Mr. Speaker I know this must be a very difficult time for you and your colleagues, and I would not for a moment want you to think that I am condoning these murders, but the assassinations have thrust into the spotlight some reforms that the American people have endorsed for quite some time. The idea of term limits has an approval rating of almost ninety percent, and a balanced-budget amendment has an approval rating of close to eighty percent. Everyone agrees the national debt needs to be reduced, and this letter brings up a point that no one in Washington is willing to address, and that is, cuts in Social Security and Medicare. It is a horrible tragedy that three of our country’s elder statesmen have been assassinated, but maybe some good can come of it, if it forces you and the rest of your colleagues to make some overdue and needed reforms.”
Basset took a deep breath. They had anticipated a question along these lines, and Garret had helped prepare an answer. Basset paused for a moment and stared at the reporter. “I would like you to try and tell the wives, children, and grandchildren of those three men what good could possibly come from this.” Basset shook his head in a disgusted manner.
“Mr. Speaker, I am not saying that this isn’t a horrible tragedy for the families of these men. What I am asking is, what is it going to take for the leaders of this country to implement the reforms that the American people want? I mean, if these horrible murders are not going to move you to action, what will?”
“We do not even know if these demands are sincere. As I have told you, the FBI believes the intent of that letter to be bogus . . . and besides, I resent the fact that we have not even had time to bury these honorable men, and you are talking about kowtowing to the demands of their murderers.”
“Mr. Speaker, I am not talking about kowtowing to anyone. I am only asking if you plan to implement certain reforms that the American people want.”
“I can answer absolutely and emphatically, no! The government of the United States of America has never, and will never, negotiate with terrorists.”
“No one is asking you to negotiate with terrorists, Mr. Speaker. We are talking about making several simple, long-overdue reforms.”
Basset started to shake his head back and forth. “The key word in that sentence was simple. Running this country is a very complex and difficult task. A couple of ‘simple reforms’ as you phrased it will not even solve some of the minor problems our country has.” Basset turned to the host. “And I would like to add, things are not as dire as some would lead us to think. The president has been doing a fine job. The economy is strong, and we have been reporting smaller budget deficits than the previous administration.”
The reporter was not to be deterred by simple political rhetoric. “So you plan on doing nothing, Mr. Speaker?”
“No. I plan on bringing the House back into session as soon as we are done paying respect to our fallen colleagues, and then we will pass the president’s budget. A budget that, I might add, the American people want.”
O’Rourke got off the couch and tossed the remote control on Liz’s lap. “What’s it going to take for these guys to learn? Seamus, do you want to go for a walk?” Michael’s grandfather nodded and got out of his chair. Michael left the room and appeared in the doorway a moment later with two coats and Duke’s leash. He handed one of the coats to Seamus and bent down to snap the leash onto Duke’s collar. He stood and looked over at Liz, who was focused on the TV. “Honey, we’ll be back in an hour or so.”
Without looking up, she replied, “I’ll be here. You two have a nice time.”
Michael watched her diligently type away while she stayed focused on the program. Walking behind the couch, he bent over and kissed her on the cheek. “Don’t pull any punches, honey.”
Scarlatti smiled and said, “I never do.”
“That’s why you’re my favorite journalist.”
“I hope that’s not the only reason.”
Seamus grinned at Michael, and the two of them, along with Duke, left the house. When they reached the sidewalk, Seamus said, “You two seem very happy.”
“We are. If it wasn’t for our jobs, I would have probably asked her to marry me by now.”
The stoic Seamus said, “Well, you have my approval.” As an afterthought he added, “If it matters.”
Michael wrapped an arm around his grandfather and with a big grin said, “You’re damn right it does.”
Duke began sniffing everything in their path, zigzagging back and forth across the sidewalk. Michael looked over his shoulder and said, “There’s something we really need to talk about.”
“Does it have anything to do with what you mentioned on the phone the other day?”
“Yes. Remember the hunting trip we went on last year with—”
Seamus raised his hand and cut Michael off. “Don’t mention any names.” Seamus looked up and down the street. Washington gave him the creeps. “With all of these damn embassies around here, the FBI, the CIA, the NSA, and all of the defense intelligence agencies, it’s a wonder any conversation takes place in this town without being recorded.”
Michael nodded. “Well, you know who I’m talking about.” The younger of the two O’Rourkes lowered his voice. “On that trip I gave him some highly sensitive information about a senator who cost the lives of half the men in his unit.”
“I remember.”
Michael paused and said, “I think that he might be involved in these assassinations.”
“And?” Seamus shrugged his shoulders with indifference.
“You don’t think it’s a big deal?”
Seamus retrieved his pipe from his jacket. “Yes, I think it’s a big deal.” He packed some tobacco in the bowl and sucked a flame down into it. Exhaling a cloud of smoke, he said, “Michael, partisan politics has always existed in this country and it always will. In a way it’s healthy. The parties act as another check and balance. They pulled the same crap when I was your age; the only difference was, when push came to shove, they were responsible enough to balance the budget. The problem today is that men like Koslowski, Fitzgerald, and Downs . . . the old guard . . . they control the system. All of this shit went down on their watch, and they did nothing to prevent it. In fact they resisted commonsense change at every turn. They are the reason we are five trillion dollars in debt, and I couldn’t be happier that they are dead.”
Michael gave Duke’s leash a slight yank to get him to slow down. “I’m not sad they’re dead either. I’ve seen up close and personal the way they do business, and I couldn’t be happier that they’re gone. My problem is that I’m not entirely comfortable with the idea that I may have set this whole thing in motion by relaying a highly classified piece of information that I wasn’t even supposed to know.”
Seamus waited for another walker to pass before he gave his answer. “We went over this before you told him. You commanded a recon unit when you were in the Corps. If some little silver-spoon millionaire politician compromised a mission that you and your men were on because he had had one too many martinis . . . and his loose lips led to the deaths of half of your unit, would you want to know?”
Michael sighed deeply and said, “Yes.”
“That’s all the farther you need to look, Michael.” Seamus took several more puffs off his pipe while they walked. “Have you talked to anyone else about this?”
“No.”
“Not even Liz?”
“No.”
“Good. Keep it under your hat. If our boy is behind this, we’re fortunate. This is the first chance we’ve had for real change in thirty years.”
“I agree. It’s just that something like this could spin out of control real fast, and I don’t want to see him get taken down.”
“Don’t worry. He isn’t going to get caught. He’s been doing this for years, in places a hell of a lot more dangerous than the United States.”
Director Thomas Stansfield sat in his office with only his desk lamp on. Outside the window of his corner office, powerful floodlights illuminated the formidable compound of the Central Intelligence Agency. Three years ago he would never have been found in the office on a Sunday night. He would have been sitting at home with his wife. Stansfield’s demanding job required him to work some long and strange hours, but Sunday evenings had been the one night of the week, barring an international crisis, when he would drop everything to be at home. He and his wife would typically watch 60 Minutes while making dinner, maybe relax in front of a fire, watch a movie, and then call the girls out on the West Coast. They had two daughters, both married, one living in Sacramento and the other in San Diego.
This calm, comforting, and loving part of Thomas Stansfield’s existence had vanished with little notice. Sara Stansfield had left his life too quickly. During a routine physical, a tumor had been discovered. When the doctors went in to take it out, they found that the cancer had already spread to several glands. Two months later, Sara was dead. It had been the most painful two months of Stansfield’s life. That he worked in a profession where emotions were looked on as a liability—a profession where tough-minded and emotionally neutral people played a serious game—did not help things. When Sara died, Stansfield had been the Agency’s director for just over a year. Just when he’d reached the top of his profession, he’d lost the most important person in his life.
Those who were close to him offered their private condolences, and they were appreciated. Some offered to help with the workload until he was up to it, but Stansfield had kindly refused. After Sara’s funeral, he spent several days with his daughters and three grandchildren, reminiscing about his beautiful wife and their loving mother and grandmother. The sons-in-law respected the feelings of a very private man and kept their distance. When the weekend was over, he put his loved ones on a plane and went back to work. Even three years later, Sara was often on his mind. The pain was gone and had been replaced by fond memories, hard work, and trips to see his daughters and grandchildren.
Stansfield was a first in the history of CIA directors. He had no military experience, he was not a lawyer or a politician, and he was not Ivy League educated. Stansfield had entered the Agency during the midfifties, af
ter graduating from the University of South Dakota. He had something the Agency was searching for desperately—he was fluent in three languages: English, German, and Russian. Being raised on a farm in rural South Dakota during the pretelevision days gave his German-immigrant father and his Russian-immigrant mother plenty of time to teach their children the languages, customs, and folklore of their native lands. Stansfield had been one of the CIA’s most productive agents during the fifties and sixties. In the seventies he became a case officer, in the early eighties he was the Agency’s station chief in Moscow, and then in the late eighties he became the deputy director of operations. At the time, he thought he’d reached the end of the ladder.
That was until the previous president did something that surprised everyone. The CIA, at the time of the collapse of the Soviet Union, had grown to rely heavily on nonhuman data. They were spending most of their resources spying the high-tech way, with satellites and other electronic devices. The electronic information that the Agency collected was valuable, but nowhere near as valuable as a well-placed agent. During that president’s second year, he was confronted with his first nationalsecurity crisis and was forced to face the harsh reality that his intelligence agencies could not give him the information he needed. All of those billion-dollar satellites and million-dollar spy planes could not tell him what he needed to know. What he needed was someone on the ground, someone on the inside. A spy.