When they reached the garage, the limo was waiting with one police squad parked in front and another behind. Schwab and Basset were quickly ushered into the backseat. Dorle brought the Capitol Police officers together for a quick reminder of how things would go when they arrived at their destination. When he was finished, the police got into their squad cars, Agent Art Jones climbed behind the wheel of the large, black Cadillac, and Dorle got into the backseat with the Speaker and Schwab. Before giving the order to pull out, Dorle brought his mike up to his mouth and said, “Advance team Bravo, this is Alpha, do you read? Over.”
The leader of the advance team at the CNN studios heard the call through his earpiece and had to cut off one of the building’s private security guards in midsentence. “This is Bravo, over.”
“We are en route with Bobcat. What is your sit report? Over.”
“About as secure as we could get things on such short notice, Harry, over.”
“Roger, our ETA is two minutes. If anything changes, let me know immediately, over.” Dorle looked at his agent behind the wheel. “Let’s move out, Art.” Jones flashed the limo’s brights at the lead police car, and the motorcade sped out of the parking garage.
The assassin looked out of the window and down at the two police officers in front of the CNN building. They’d just stepped off the curb and were standing on the street, waving by cars and cabs that wanted to stop in front of the building. He spoke into the mike hanging in front of his mouth. “Chuck, stay loose. They should be arriving any minute, over.”
The response came back immediately. “Roger, everything is set down here.” The man standing in front of the ventilation shaft took off his hard hat, placed it in his bag, and pulled out a gas mask. Reaching back into the bag, he grabbed two gray canisters and set them on top of the ventilation unit.
The motorcade pulled up in front of the building and stopped. Dorle immediately noticed that, despite telling the drivers of both squads to give the limo at least thirty feet on either end, they had forgotten and the limo was boxed in. “Art, call the guys in the squads and tell them to move their cars farther away from the limo.” Dorle turned to Basset. “Sir, please stay in the car for a minute while I check things out.” Dorle exited the limo and met his agent in charge of the Bravo team on the sidewalk. “How are we doing?” he asked the junior man.
“Fine. The exits are secured, the elevator is being held, and Alan is on the roof keeping an eye on things.”
The assassin looked down at the two men on the street and guessed that they were either Secret Service or FBI. It had been expected. He spoke into his mike, “Chuck, get ready to pull the pin.”
The man in the basement pulled the gas mask down over his face and grabbed one of the canisters. Back on the sixth floor, the assassin watched as the man who had stepped out of the limo waved several police officers over and started to organize them around the door of the limo. None of these men would do any good. The assassin had chosen the sixth floor so the angle of the shot would be such that four seven-foot-tall officers would make no difference. They didn’t want to kill anyone other than Basset. That was also the reason the nitrotipped bullet was being used. Unlike most rifle bullets, this one would explode on impact and not exit the target. A typical rifle bullet would spiral through the target and exit with enough velocity to inflict damage, and even death, to anyone unfortunate enough to be standing on the other side.
The assassin saw the man who had gotten out of the limo a moment earlier stick his head into the open door and then step back as he helped Basset out of the backseat. The assassin clutched the butt of the rifle a little tighter, placed his right hand on the string, and spoke into the small mike hanging in front of his mouth, “Chuck, drop the smoke.”
The man in the basement pulled the pin from the first canister, tossed it into the open vent, and quickly grabbed the second canister and did the same. He then grabbed the metal access panel and covered the opening. The smoke from the two canisters immediately shot upward through the ventilation system, pushed by the warm air leaving the furnace. The man then walked briskly to the wall and waited.
The assassin on the sixth floor concentrated on taking slow, deep breaths. When he saw the head of Basset pop out of the limo, his right hand yanked the string attached to the glass cutter, and the newly created circle of glass dropped to the floor. Basset was ushered into the middle of the four police officers, and the group started to move toward the door. The assassin spoke into his mike, “Pull the alarm.” In the basement, his accomplice yanked on the fire alarm. The loud buzzing of the alarm reverberated throughout the building and spilled out onto the street.
Dorle and his agents were sweeping the street and looking at everyone but Basset. When the alarm went off, the police officers surrounding Basset did what their instincts told them to do. They stopped and looked to see where the noise was coming from. At the same time the police officers’ instincts kicked in, so did Dorle’s. He lunged forward and screamed, “Keep moving!” As he reached the back of the first officer, he heard what he instantly knew was the loud crack of a rifle shot. He continued to push the group as he yelled, “Move! Move!” He took two steps, and then the officer in front of him stumbled and fell, landing on the fatally wounded Basset. Dorle placed his hand on the back of the officer to prevent himself from falling and looked down to see if Basset had been hit.
The answer was immediately obvious. There was blood everywhere. The nitro-tipped bullet had ripped apart the back of Basset’s head, and the white shirts of the Capitol Police officers were covered with blood and a good portion of the Speaker’s brain. Dorle kneeled over the pile and brought his mike to his mouth. “Bobcat’s been hit! I repeat, Bobcat has been hit!” Two of the Secret Service agents were now standing between the street and the pile of bodies on the ground, their Uzis drawn, and their eyes searching the buildings across the street.
The assassin quickly disassembled the rifle and put everything back in the bag. Smoke was filling the room and he yanked his gas mask over his face. Grabbing the bag, he ran down the hallway toward the stairwell. Once in the stairwell, he pushed his way past the scared office workers who thought the building was on fire.
Dorle looked down at what was left of Basset’s head and knew the Speaker was dead. Just then, the voice of the Secret Service agent on the roof of the CNN building came barking over Dorle’s ear-piece. “I think the shot came from the building directly across the street!”
Dorle jumped to his feet and started shouting orders. “Art, call for backup, let’s secure that building!” Turning to one of the cops, he yelled, “Take two of your men and head around the back! I don’t want anyone leaving the area! And be careful!” Grabbing the two agents who had their Uzis drawn, he ran across the street for the front of the building. They darted between the cars that had stopped to see what was happening. They made it to the other side of the street, and just as they reached the front of the building, an onslaught of frantic office workers met them coming the other way. They were blocked from getting inside. Three blocks away at Union Station, the blond-haired assassin was wearing loose jeans, a large sweatshirt, and a baseball hat. He walked over to a row of pay phones. Union Station, like most large train and subway stations, had hundreds of pay phones. It was an easy place for a person to come and go unnoticed. The man reached into his left pocket and pulled out a quarter. The dirty-blond hair that came out from under the cap and down to his shoulders was not natural. Neither was his posture. Instead of standing erect and looking like an athletic, six-foot-tall man, he was slouching. To the casual observer he looked like a slightly overweight man who was no taller than five ten. He punched the seven digits into the phone and pulled a small recorder out of his pocket. A female voice answered on the other end, “Good afternoon, American Broadcasting Corporation. How may I direct your call?”
The man pressed the play button on the recorder, and a computerized voice emanated from the small speaker. “Do not hang up. This messag
e is from the group that is responsible for the killings of Senator Fitzgerald, Senator Downs, Congressman Koslowski, and Speaker Basset.”
The twenty-three-year-old receptionist felt her heart jolt. She panicked for a moment and then remembered that all calls coming into the main switchboard were recorded.
After a short pause the recording continued. “Speaker Basset was killed because he and the rest of his colleagues have failed to take our demands seriously. We are not terrorists. We have killed no innocent civilians; in fact, we have gone to great lengths to avoid doing so. We are not, as the White House has led the media to believe, part of a conspiracy to topple the Stevens presidency. We are a group of Americans who are fed up with the corruption and complete lack of professionalism that exists in Washington, D.C.
“We gave you a chance to implement in a peaceful, democratic way the reforms you have been promising. You have failed to do so, so we have intervened. Do not test us again or we will be forced to impose more term limits. We have the resources and the resolve to kill any congressman, any senator, and even the president.
“We will grant a cease-fire and give you the remainder of the week to bury Koslowski, Downs, Fitzgerald, and Basset. After they have been laid to rest, we expect immediate action on the reforms we have proposed.”
14
IT WAS STILL LIGHT OUT AS HARRY DORLE passed through the Secret Service checkpoint and parked his car outside the staff entrance to the West Wing of the White House. Getting out of the car, he asked himself for the hundredth time since the shooting how the assassin had gotten away. The police had sealed off the entire block within minutes of the attack. All of the people who had evacuated the smoke-filled building had been roped off and were being questioned for the third and fourth time by the FBI and the Secret Service. So far, every one of them had checked out as a legitimate office worker. The building had been searched with dogs and was empty. What a mess, he thought to himself. I’ve had twenty-three good years and now this.
As he reached the entrance, Jack Warch opened the door. “Harry, I’m sorry . . . I’m really sorry.” Warch had replaced Dorle as the special agent in charge of the presidential security detail. The two men had known each other for most of their professional careers.
Dorle nodded his head in acknowledgment, but kept his eyes averted. They walked to the main floor, Warch leading and Dorle following, neither saying a word. When they reached the door to the Roosevelt Room, Dorle stopped and asked, “Jack, is the president in there?”
“No, he’s over on the residential side talking to Mrs. Basset.”
Dorle looked down at the ground and shook his head. Warch put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Harry, it wasn’t your fault.”
Dorle looked up. “Yeah, yeah, I know.”
When they entered the room, Stu Garret was pacing back and forth talking to Alex Tracy, the director of the Secret Service. Mike Nance was at the far end of the table, sitting by himself and observing the conversation between Garret and Tracy. Garret turned and stopped speaking as Warch and Dorle entered. The room fell silent and no one spoke for a moment.
Director Tracy finally broke the silence. “Gentlemen, please sit down.” Everyone sat with the exception of Garret. Director Tracy looked at Dorle. “Harry, are you all right?” Dorle nodded his head yes, but said nothing. Tracy stared at him a while longer and went on, “Harry, have you met Stu Garret and Mike Nance before?”
“No.”
There was another awkward silence while Dorle waited for Nance or Garret to say something, but neither made the effort. Then Garret stepped toward the table. “Agent Dorle, we have been receiving reports all afternoon and we know the basic facts about what happened. What we don’t know, and what I would really like to know, is, how did it happen?” Garret said in one of his more confrontational tones.
“What do you mean ‘how’?” asked Dorle.
“I’ll tell you what I mean by how. I want to know how in the hell the Speaker of the House, the third most powerful man in this country, was killed in broad daylight while he was surrounded by a dozen Secret Service agents and police officers.” Garret leaned over, placed both hands on the table, and stared at Dorle as he impatiently waited for a response.
Dorle looked at Garret and realized how this meeting was going to go. He’d heard all about Garret and his style, so he sat up a little straighter and prepared himself for the confrontation. It had been a long day and Dorle was not in the mood to be dumped on. His face tensed slightly as he spoke. “Speaker Basset was killed because he refused to cancel a public appearance. He was warned that we could not guarantee his safety, and he chose to ignore our advice.”
“That’s bullshit, Dorle. He was killed because you and your men didn’t do your jobs. It’s as simple as that.” Garret banged his fist on the table.
Dorle rose out of his chair to meet Garret eye to eye. “Oh, no, you’re not.” Pointing his finger at Garret, he said, “I’m not going to sit here and let you hang the blame for this on me.”
Garret interrupted Dorle and shouted, “Agent Dorle, you are in the White House, and I run the show around here. You will sit your ass back down right now and keep your mouth shut!”
“I don’t give a flying fuck if you’re the king of Siam! I told him it wasn’t a good idea to go out in public, and he ignored me. I did my job, and if Basset would have listened to me, he’d still be alive!”
Garret looked over at Director Tracy and screamed, “I want this man fired right now!” Without waiting for Tracy to respond, Garret snapped his head around to Warch and pointed at Dorle. “Get him out of here now! I want his ass thrown out on the street!”
Dorle went to step toward Garret, and Warch rose out of his seat, blocking him. “Harry, it’s not worth it.”
“Bullshit, I don’t need this crap. I’ve been around too long to take shit from this little Hitler.”
Garret looked back at Director Tracy. “I want him fired right now! I want his badge before he leaves this building.”
Warch pushed Dorle out the door and closed it behind him.
Dorle was shaking and his face was red from yelling. “Jack, I’m not going to take the blame for what happened to Basset.”
“I know, Harry. I know, just relax.”
Dorle took a couple of deep breaths. “I haven’t lost my temper like that in years.”
“You’ve had a long day, and Garret doesn’t usually bring out the best in people.”
“I can’t believe that guy. Does the president actually listen to him?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Back in the Roosevelt Room, Mike Nance stood and gestured for Garret to follow him. He opened a door at the opposite end of the room and walked across the hall to the Oval Office. Garret walked around the large table and through the door. When he entered the Oval Office, Nance closed the door behind Garret and stood staring at him for a full thirty seconds while he waited for Garret to calm down.
In a steady voice Nance said, “Stu, you’ve got to learn to control yourself.”
“Mike, this whole damn thing is falling apart. We’ve lost Koslowski and Basset. Do you know what our odds are for getting him reelected with those two dead?” Garret held up his hand and formed a zero. “They’re zip, Mike. You and I are going to be out of a job next year. This whole thing is falling apart, and it’s because idiots like that Dorle can’t do their job.”
Nance looked at Garret and wondered momentarily if he really was nuts. “Stu, you have to get ahold of yourself. A lot of things could happen between now and election time. Losing your temper doesn’t do us a bit of good. We have a lot of work to do tonight, so calm down. The important thing right now is to get the public behind us. We have to find a way to turn this thing around. It’s not going to be easy, but we have to keep our heads.”
Garret nodded in agreement and Nance said, “Let’s go back in there and keep our cool.”
Speaker Basset had left the Capitol’s underground parking garage in
a black limousine less than twentyfour hours earlier. He was now being returned in a black hearse. As the vehicle rolled to a stop, the back door was opened, and a special detail of six military personnel in dress uniform lifted the flag-draped casket out of the hearse and onto a gurney.
After consulting with Speaker Basset’s family, President Stevens had given the order to make arrangements for Basset to be included in the already planned ceremony for Senator Fitzgerald, Congressman Koslowski, and Senator Downs. All four of the deceased had stated in their wills that they were to be buried in their home states. With the obvious security issues arising from the string of assassinations, it was decided that it would be best to have Basset join his three fallen comrades rather than have a separate ceremony in two days.