Hopkinson was standing off to the side, looking more like a stage director for a play than the White House communications director. Hopkinson nodded his approval that the president had remembered the preplanned gesture of bowing his head as if in prayer. Stevens had practiced the speech nine times. Each time, Hopkinson had meticulously analyzed every gesture and movement until he felt he had the desired performance. Now he stood and anticipated every preplanned head nod, hand motion, facial expression, and change of inflection in the president’s voice.
Stevens looked back up and stared into the TelePrompTer to his left. “During our history as a nation we have been confronted with some very trying times. We have always survived because of our strength and diversity. We have survived because the leaders of our country have had the courage to put personal beliefs aside, come together, and do what is right for America. That is why we are here tonight.” The president turned and motioned to the men behind him. “The group that stands with me tonight represents the two parties that have helped shape America and make it great. During normal times it would be very difficult to get us to agree on almost anything, but when the very fabric that our democracy was woven from is threatened, we agree without a single deviance. That is why we have come together tonight. We have come together to announce that we are putting our differences aside and are going to move forward as a unified group.
“We will not cower to the demands of terrorists. The survival of this country’s democratic principles is far more important than our individual beliefs. Tomorrow afternoon, I will fly to Camp David with the leaders of both the House and the Senate. We will spend the weekend going over my budget and putting together a bipartisan agenda for the following year. We are the people who have been elected to run this government”—Stevens again turned and motioned to the men and women standing behind him—“and we will not be blackmailed by terrorists!”
As the president continued to speak, the blondhaired assassin looked at the TV and began to form a mental checklist of the things he would have to do before the sun rose. He got off the couch and went to the basement of the apartment building. He stopped at his storage closet and checked to make sure the wax seal on the bottom door hinge had not been broken. After being satisfied that no one had entered his locker, he walked past four more doors and stopped in front of another closet, which was assigned to an elderly gentleman on the first floor. Again, he checked the wax seal on the bottom hinge, then picked the lock.
Entering the ten-by-ten-foot closet, he walked to the back wall and moved several stacks of boxes, uncovering a stainless-steel trunk. It weighed almost fifty pounds, but the assassin carried it up to his apartment without breaking a sweat. Setting the case down on the floor of his bedroom, he unlocked and opened it, retrieving a red Gore-Tex ski jacket, a Chicago Cubs baseball hat, a pair of work boots, a brown shoulder-length wig, a pair of nonprescription glasses, a large video camera, a small red toolbox, and a large black backpack.
The man placed a pair of running shoes, tights, dark blue sweatpants, a sweatshirt, and a plain, dark baseball hat in the bottom of the backpack, then packed the rest of the equipment. When he was finished, he pulled a strand of hair from his head and placed it next to a book on the coffee table. Looking around the apartment, he took note of where everything was, then grabbed the trunk and backpack. Locking the door behind him, he walked down to the basement and put the trunk back in the old man’s locker. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a black candle and lit it. When a small amount of wax had pooled around the flame, the assassin bent over and let a single drop run down the bottom hinge of the door. He checked to make sure the wax had properly dried, then headed up one flight of stairs, through the small lobby, and out onto the sidewalk.
He was not a smoker, but he pulled a pack of Marlboros out of his pocket and lit one. Standing casually, he puffed on the cigarette but did not inhale it. His eyes narrowed as he methodically studied every window of the three apartment buildings across the street, looking for anyone standing in the shadows behind a curtain or the black, circular shape of a camera lens peering back at him. If the FBI was onto him, that was where they would be. He didn’t think they were, but he reminded himself that the whole idea behind surveillance was not to be seen.
After finishing the sweep of the buildings, he tossed the cigarette butt into the street and walked away. He walked for almost eight blocks, turning at random to make sure no one was following. After he felt safe, he turned into a narrow alley and ducked behind two Dumpsters. Quickly, he put on the wig, hat, red jacket, and glasses.
He emerged from the other end of the alley a different man. His stride was longer but slower, more gangly, less precise and athletic than before. Three blocks later, he stopped at a pay phone and punched in a series of numbers. The phone rang once and he hung up, waited thirty seconds, and dialed the number again. This time he let the phone ring five times before hanging up. Two blocks later, he climbed behind the wheel of a beige Ford Taurus and drove off.
The two men were leaning on their pool cues and drinking a pitcher of Coors Light in the back room of Al’s Bar in Annapolis. Neither of them preferred the taste of Coors Light, but they did like that it had such a low alcohol content. The larger of the two was lining up a combo when the digital phone on his hip rang once and stopped. Both men looked at their watches and counted the seconds. Thirty seconds later, they counted five more rings. Instead of leaving right away, they finished their game and switched to coffee. It was going to be a long night.
Ted Hopkinson strutted into the Oval Office as if he were floating on clouds. The president was being attended to by one of Hopkinson’s assistants, who was wiping makeup off his face. “Sir, you did a wonderful job. I haven’t seen the press this together on an issue in a long time. They bought the whole speech, hook, line, and sinker.”
Stevens showed a slight grin. “Yes, it looks like it was a winner.” The president nodded toward the four TVs that were turned on. Only the sound on the one tuned to ABC was up. The White House correspondents for the three networks and CNN were all standing in different areas around the White House, giving their summation of the president’s speech. When they were finished, the anchors took over for their take on the event, and then the special analysts came on to give their two cents. The media loved it. The story just kept getting better and better, and with it, so did their ratings. The public’s desire to watch this real-life drama was insatiable.
When all the makeup was removed from the president’s face, he buttoned the top button of his shirt and slipped his tie back into a tight knot. Hopkinson turned his attention away from the TVs and back to the president. “Sir, I really think we’re going to see a big jump in your approval ratings tomorrow.”
Garret and Nance entered the room. Garret slapped Hopkinson on the back and congratulated him on a job well done. Garret then nodded at the door, and the communications director grabbed his assistant and quietly retreated. Garret turned to Stevens and grinned from ear to ear. “Nice job, Jim.”
Stevens looked up and smiled. “Thank you.”
“I can’t believe the way this thing is coming together. The press is eating it up. If we can pass a budget, we won’t even have to hold an election next year.” Garret could barely contain his excitement. The thought of locking up a second term this early was appealing. Not having to crisscross the country for three months campaigning was even more appealing. Sure, they would have to work a little, but not like last time. Instead of three states a day, and a speech every two hours for the last month, they could relax and run a TV campaign out of the White House. It would be so nice not to have to go out and press flesh with every Tom, Dick, and Harry, Garret thought to himself.
Nance was standing off to the side, watching the president and Garret. Nance let them continue to speculate about a second term for a minute and then stepped in. “I hate to ruin your little celebration here, but the elections are a long way off, and a lot could happen between now and then.??
? The comment got both Garret’s and the president’s attention, and both men became more serious. “You’ve done a great job solidifying this coalition on such short notice, and hopefully, if things go well, we’ll pull it off. . . . But, we need to understand that this new alliance could fall apart, as fast or faster than it was put together.” Nance paused for effect. “The New York Times printed a poll today that said over thirty-seven percent of the people they surveyed thought the country had not suffered by losing Basset, Koslowski, Fitzgerald, and Downs. I’m getting a sense that the common person is empathizing with these assassins. The people are fed up with politics as usual, and if we’re not careful, we’re going to turn these assassins into dragon slayers. We can’t ignore them. They are not just going to go away.” Nance walked over to the fireplace, his hand on his chin and his forefinger tapping his lips. “They will strike again, and they will continue to strike until we give in or they get caught.” Nance turned around and looked at the president and Garret. “We’d better hope they slip up, because if they don’t, that alliance will crumble. None of those men have the guts to put their lives on the line if this thing gets any hotter.”
The assassin sat in his car across the street from the local ABC studio. It was not the first time he’d waited for the news van to return from the White House, but it would be the last. Just after midnight, the van that was assigned to the White House returned and drove into the underground parking garage. The assassin waited for another twenty minutes, then got out of the car, grabbing the video camera and backpack. As he walked across the street, he put the camera up on his right shoulder and tilted his head down. The brim of his hat and the camera screened his face. On his way through the front door, he passed a female reporter and cameraman on their way out. They were both wearing red, Gore-Tex ski jackets with the ABC logo over their left breast.
The assassin kept his head down and headed straight for the stairs leading to the underground parking garage. When he reached the garage, he waved to the security guard, who was sitting in a room with a large glass window. The man had his feet up on the desk and was watching TV. He casually looked up and, upon seeing the red jacket and camera, turned his attention back to the TV. The assassin walked through the row of vans and cars and stopped when he reached the one with the right license plate. It took him less than thirty seconds to pick the lock. Casually, he slid the door open and climbed in, closing it behind him. Setting the camera down, he grabbed an electric screwdriver out of his backpack and went to work. A minute later, he popped the cover off the control board and started searching for the right wires. After finding them, he spliced several wires and carefully attached a transponder. When he was done, he tested the transponder several times, then put the cover back on the control board. Packing up his gear, he stepped out of the van and locked the door. Once again, he walked by the window on his way to the stairs, his face covered by the brim of his hat and the camera.
Outside, the assassin climbed behind the wheel of the Ford Taurus and drove west on K Street through downtown. It was almost 1 A.M. and the traffic was light. Several miles later, he turned onto Wisconsin Avenue and headed north. The pedestrian traffic was quite a bit busier in Georgetown, as the young professionals and college kids tried to get a head start on the weekend. Almost a mile later, he pulled into the Safeway on Wisconsin and Thirtyfourth Street. Even at this hour, the parking lot was half-full. That was what he wanted. If a cop drove by, he wouldn’t think twice about a man sitting alone in the parking lot of a twenty-four-hour grocery store. He would assume he was waiting for his wife, but if he was seen parked alone on a side street, that would be a different story.
He pulled the car into a spot up front and tilted the steering wheel all the way up. He took the wig, hat, and glasses off, placing them in a large, green trash bag. Next came the jacket, camera, and small toolbox. Then he quickly took off the boots, followed by his pants and underwear. He was naked from the waist down and put on the running tights and sweatpants. Taking off the flannel shirt, he replaced it with the dark sweatshirt, put on the worn running shoes, and checked to make sure everything was in the trash bag, including the backpack.
Backing out of the spot, he drove through the lot and pulled back onto Wisconsin Avenue. The trash bag could have been thrown away in one of the grocery store’s Dumpsters, but the homeless people would find it, and homeless people talked to cops. The assassin had a small office building picked out about two miles away where the garbage was picked up on Friday mornings. Almost five minutes later, he pulled into the alley behind the small, brick building and stopped. Jumping out, he lifted the lid of the Dumpster, shifted several bags to the side, and placed his bag inside, covering it up with the others. He gently let the lid of the Dumpster close, not wanting to make any loud noises, and got back in the car. Within seconds he was back on Wisconsin and headed south.
Several minutes later, he was winding through the small neighborhood of Potomac Palisades. When he reached the corner of Potomac Avenue and Manning Place Lane, he parked the car and got out, closing the door gently behind him. The temperature had dropped to around forty degrees, and a slight breeze was rustling the dry, fall leaves. The forecast called for fog in the morning, but there was no sign of it where he was, high on the bluffs above the Potomac. On the other side of the street was a small boulevard of grass and then thick woods that led down a steep hill to the Potomac Parkway and then just beyond that to Palisades Park and the Potomac River.
He crossed the street and entered the tree line. Finding a small footpath that he had used before, he zigzagged his way down the steep, forested hillside. Stopping just short of the road, he checked for the headlights of any approaching cars, then darted across the two-lane highway and down into a small ravine. Settling in behind a large tree and some bushes, he looked up at the underside of the Chain Bridge, which ran from D.C. into Virginia. The lights from the bridge cast a faint yellow glow that reached the tops of the trees above him and then faded before hitting the forested floor. Palisades Park was not your typical metropolitan park. There were no softball diamonds or football fields. It was heavily wooded with a few jogging trails and some large patches of marshland.
The assassin pressed the light button on his digital-watch and checked the time. It was nearing 2 A.M. and his accomplices would be arriving shortly. Looking in the direction of the river, he could see a thin layer of fog spreading out across the floor of the forest. The noise of car tires on gravel caught his attention, and he looked up over the edge of the ravine. A blue-and-white Washington Post newspaper van came to a stop, and a man dressed in blue coveralls quickly got out of the passenger side and slid open the door of the cargo area. Reaching inside, he grabbed two large, black duffel bags and ran to the tree line, setting the bags down about fifteen feet from where the blond-haired assassin was waiting. The man let out three curt whistles and waited for a confirmation. The assassin did the same, and the man walked away and climbed back in the van.
Picking up the two large bags, the assassin placed the shoulder straps around his neck and let the bags rest on his hips. Next, he threaded through the woods and crossed under the Chain Bridge. The Potomac River was not navigable by anything other than a canoe or a raft at this point, and the river only ran under the far western end of the bridge. As the assassin worked his way toward the river, the trees became smaller and more sparse. By the time he reached the middle of the bridge, the fog was up to his waist. Turning south, he walked about thirty yards and found a small clearing.
He set both bags down and opened the one on his right. The fog and darkness made his task more difficult, but he was used to working under strange conditions. Inside one of the bags was a small gray radar dish mounted on a square, metal box, a car battery, some power cables, and camouflage netting. The assassin hooked the car battery up to the radar unit and tested the power. When he was satisfied, he covered it with the camouflage netting and opened the second bag, pulling out a wooden board about three feet long. A
ttached to the flat side of the board in an upright position were six plastic tubes about an inch in diameter and twenty-four inches long. Each tube was painted dull green and was loaded with a phosphorus flare. He pulled some small bushes out of the ground and placed them around the tubes so the open ends were pointed straight up into the sky. To the base of the makeshift launcher, he attached a nine-volt battery, and a small transponder. The assassin checked everything over, making sure the transponders were operating properly, then grabbed the empty bags and started to weave his way back toward the eastern end of the bridge.
17
THE MORNING SUN RISING ABOVE THE EASTERN horizon was invisible because of the thick fog that blanketed the nation’s capital. Although the streets were quiet, there were signs that the morning rush of people heading to work was near. The blue-andwhite Washington Post newspaper van pulled up to the corner of Maryland and Massachusetts at the east end of Stanton Park. Both men got out of the van. The driver opened the back doors, and his partner walked over to the Washington Post newspaper box that was chained to the streetlight. He got down on one knee and picked the padlock. A moment later it sprang open, and the chain dropped to the ground. He grabbed the box and carried it to the back of the van. While he loaded it, his partner took an identical box and placed it where the other one had been. He checked several times to make sure the door wouldn’t open. After being satisfied, he pulled a remote control out of his pocket and punched in several numbers. A red light at the top told him the small radar unit placed inside the empty box was receiving the signal. He nodded to his partner and they got back in the van.