His partner was sitting in the blue van, six blocks away, around the corner from a small, twenty-fourhour convenience store. He was monitoring the local police scanner. Calmly, he spoke into the microphone hanging in front of his mouth, “Roger that, everything is clear on my end, over.”
The man in the kitchen of Burmiester’s house pushed the microphone back up under the brim of his hat and slowly removed the black bag from over his shoulder. Gently placing it on the floor, he retrieved a gas mask and a green tank with a clear rubber hose attached to the end. With the tank and mask in hand, he walked down the uncarpeted hallway toward the front door and the staircase that led to the second floor. When he reached the foot of the staircase, he stopped and leaned forward, placing his hands on the fourth step. Again he paused, not moving, just listening. After he was sure that Burmiester had not been awakened, he started to crawl up the steps, keeping his hands and feet away from the center of the stairs, leaning forward, trying to keep his weight as equally distributed as possible, not wanting the old stairs to creak and wake the owner.
When he reached the second floor, he stayed on his knees and continued to crawl slowly toward the master bedroom, about twenty feet away. Once again, he waited patiently and listened. Gently, he stuck the rubber tube under the door, put his gas mask on, and opened the valve on the tank. Sitting down with his back against the wall, he started the timer on his watch.
After fifteen minutes had elapsed, he turned off the valve and pulled the tube out from under the door. Slowly, he opened the door and peeked into the room. Burmiester was lying with his back to the door and showed no signs of movement. The intruder pushed the door the rest of the way open and walked over to the bed. Reaching down, he nudged Burmiester several times. The old man didn’t move. He took the glove off his right hand, placed it on Burmiester’s neck, and checked his pulse. After checking it twice more, he concluded with relief that the old man was fine. The intruder did not know the man he was standing over, and he did not wish to see him die. Harold Burmiester was not the man he was after tonight. He walked around the bed to the double window that looked out onto the street below and stared straight across at the house opposite Burmiester’s. He lowered the mike and said, “I’m in position. Everything looks good, over.”
The response came crackling back through his earpiece immediately. “Roger, everything is quiet on this end, over.”
Five miles away on the other side of the Potomac River, the second team had moved into position. The nondescript white van was parked on a quiet side street. Inside, the blond-haired assassin was undergoing a change. He’d taken off his dark jeans, jacket, and boots and had replaced them with a gray pair of sweatpants, a blue sweatshirt, and a pair of Nike running shoes. He sat still while one of the other men carefully applied black makeup to his face, neck, and ears. The makeup was for camouflage, but not in the typical military sense. It was meant to be noticed and to deceive, not to conceal. After the makeup job was completed, a tight, black Afro wig was placed over his blond hair, and a pair of brown contacts were inserted over his blue eyes. Next, he put his headset back on and pulled a University of Michigan baseball hat over his head.
5:55 A.M., Friday
The screen covering Mr. Burmiester’s bedroom window had been taken off, and the owner of the house had been carefully moved from the master bedroom down the hall to one of the guest rooms. The intruder was sitting on a wooden chair, staring out the window at a pair of French doors located on the second floor of the house across the street. Resting on his lap was a Remington M-24 military sniper rifle with a customized silencer attached to the end of the barrel. A round was in the chamber but the rifle was still on safety. The alarm on his watch had beeped five minutes earlier, and he was trying to stay relaxed. The sky was just starting to brighten and the birds were chirping. His target would be rising any minute, and he was making a conscious effort to control his breathing and keep his adrenaline level low.
A light was turned on across the street, and the drapes on the other side of the French doors turned from gray to yellow. In one fast motion he brought the rifle up into a firing position, pressing the stock between his shoulder and left cheek. His finger came up and flipped off the safety, while he centered the crosshairs on the middle of the French doors. He continued taking slow, controlled breaths. A blurred shadow moved from behind the curtains. The shooter inhaled deeply, and just when his lungs were fully expanded, the doors across the street opened. As they swung inward, they revealed the pudgy, pink-and-white body of Congressman Jack Koslowski. Wearing only a pair of baby blue boxers, he turned and started for the bathroom.
The center of the crosshairs were resting on the small of Koslowski’s hairy back. The right hand of the assassin rose slightly, and the rifle followed. The crosshairs slid up the spinal column, past the shoulder blades, and rested just below the bald spot on the back of Koslowski’s head. The upper body of the assassin twisted as the sight followed the target across the room. The left forefinger started its slow, even squeeze on the trigger. A second later it caught, and the hammer slammed forward. The hollow-point round spiraled its way down the barrel, through the silencer, and sliced its way into the still morning air.
The bullet slammed into the back of the congressman’s head, the hollow point collapsing upon impact. Instead of continuing its clean, tight spiral, the now flattened tip was three times larger than its original size as it ripped through the brain, pushing everything in its path toward the front of the congressman’s head. The round tore through the right eye socket, taking with it chunks of bone, brain, and flesh. The momentum of the impact propelled Koslowski forward and pinned him against the side of the bed, leaving his body bent backward and his legs and arms twitching. The assassin had already chambered another round and was maneuvering the crosshairs back into position. The next shot struck Koslowski at the base of his skull and immediately severed all neural communication between the brain and the rest of his body.
6:15 A.M., Friday
Across the Potomac River, in McLean, Virginia, the other group sat and waited for their next target. They were parked across the street from Pimmit Bend Park, facing north on Balentrane Lane, which dead-ended into the park. The driver listened to the police scanner and chewed a piece of gum. Another man was in the back of the van looking out the rear windows at the park. From where they were positioned, he could see the formerly blond assassin leaning against a tree next to the jogging path. He was stretching his legs as he waited, trying to make himself look like just another runner. Several joggers and walkers had already passed by and had taken notice of what they thought was a black man getting ready to exercise in their lily-white park. As he let go of his right leg, the assassin grabbed his left leg and pulled it up behind him. He placed his left hand against a tree for balance and looked at his watch. Their next target was due any minute.
The target was Senator Robert Downs, the chairman of the Senate Banking Committee and the reigning “prince of pork” in the United States Senate. He lived less than three blocks away and walked his collie religiously every morning, between 6:00 and 6:20 A.M. It was almost a quarter after, and he was due any minute. As the assassin looked up from the tree, he saw the familiar brown English driving cap of Downs bobbing up and down just on the other side of the slight rise in the path. He was fifty yards away, walking at his usual, leisurely pace. When Downs reached the crest of the small hill, the assassin noticed a woman in a brightly colored tennis warm-up about thirty yards behind the senator. She was walking at a fast pace, flailing her arms and swinging her hips from side to side. As they approached his position, the woman was almost ready to pass the senator. The assassin noticed she was wearing a Walkman, and he breathed a slight sigh of relief. No innocent people were to die.
When Downs was about twenty yards away, the assassin turned his back to his target, leaned against the tree, pulled his right leg up, and started to stretch again. He could hear the dog panting and the nails of his paws as the
y struck the black asphalt path. He let go of his right leg and grabbed his left. In a low whisper he spoke into his mike, “How do I look, over?”
The man sitting in the back of the van looked to his right and left and then responded, “The only two people in sight are our target and the woman coming up behind him, over.”
“That’s a roger, over.” The assassin turned his head to the right and looked over his shoulder. Downs was within striking distance and the woman was right on his heels. The assassin looked down at the base of the tree and concentrated on his peripheral vision. By the time the two walkers reached the tree, the woman had passed Downs and was steadily increasing the distance between herself and the senator.
The assassin stepped out onto the path and fell into line behind Downs. After about three strides his left hand slid underneath his baggy sweats and grabbed the waistband of his running tights. His right hand reached in and grabbed the handle of the 9mm Beretta. Picking up the pace, he closed in on the senator. Pulling the gun out, he extended his arm and placed the tip of the silencer inches from the back of his target’s head. Two quick rounds were fired into the base of the skull, and Downs stumbled forward, landing face first on the pavement. The assassin turned and sprinted across the park to the waiting van. The female walker continued her trek without missing a stride as the old collie stood over her dying master and sniffed at the pool of blood that was forming next to his head.
6
THE SUN HAD RISEN IN THE FALL MORNING sky and was fighting to stay out as the wind picked up and the clouds rolled in. A steady stream of gold and red leaves rustled past the black dress shoes of FBI special agent Skip McMahon. McMahon was the special agent in charge of the FBI’s East Coast Quick Response Team. The Quick Response Team, or QRT as it was referred to within the Bureau, was composed of an elite group of agents. Their mission was straightforward: to arrive at the crime scene of a terrorist attack and start the immediate collection of evidence and pursuit of the perpetrators while the trail was still warm. The unit had planes, helicopters, and mobile crime labs on twenty-four-hour standby and could be at a crime scene anywhere from Chicago to Miami to New York within hours.
McMahon rested his large body against a police car and held a cup of coffee under his nose. An old football injury to his knee was giving him more trouble than usual this morning. He told himself it was the cold, damp morning air and not his age. The veteran agent watched without emotion as a black body bag containing Senator Fitzgerald was loaded into the back of an FBI van. This was the third crime scene he’d been to this morning, and the quiet intensity of the murders was setting in. It was a foregone conclusion that the murders were linked. They wouldn’t tell the press that, but it didn’t take a genius to figure out they had to be connected. He looked down at both ends of the street and shook his head at the crowd of media and curious onlookers who were gathered on the other side of the police barricades. Clasping the cup of coffee with both hands, he closed his eyes and blocked out the surrounding commotion. He tried to imagine exactly how Fitzgerald had been murdered.
McMahon was a strong believer in visualization. In an inexplicable way, he thought that a killer left an aura at the scene of a crime. It was not unusual for McMahon to go back to the places where people had been murdered months, even years, after the crimes had been committed and sit for hours playing scenario after scenario through his head, trying to gain the slightest insight into the mind of the murderer.
Putting himself in the shoes of the killer, he thought about the different ways Fitzgerald could have been murdered. After a while he started to look for similarities in the way Koslowski, Downs, and Fitzgerald had been killed. He was making a mental checklist of the questions that needed to be answered: How many killers? Why were they killed? Why these three politicians? Who would have the motive? McMahon was laying the foundation for his investigation. Everything he was thinking would be transferred onto a blackboard back in the tactical situation room for his team to review. His concentration was broken by a familiar voice calling his name. McMahon looked up and saw his boss, Brian Roach, walking toward him with his always present bodyguards.
“Skip, anything new to report?” Roach had been with the Bureau for twenty-six years and had served as its director for the last four. He had been a good agent in his day, but that was all history now. Running the FBI meant forgetting almost everything he’d learned about law enforcement and concentrating on politics and administration.
McMahon pushed himself away from the squad and stepped toward Roach. “The forensic teams are going over the crime scenes, and the pathologists should be starting the autopsies within the hour.” McMahon extended his right hand.
Roach shook it and grabbed the larger McMahon by the arm, walking him several steps toward the sidewalk. Roach’s bodyguards fanned out in a circle.
“It’s all set. You’re in charge of the investigation. There are going to be some people who aren’t going to be too happy about that, but I don’t care. The fact is you’re the best investigative agent we’ve got, and I need someone I can trust running this thing.” Roach put one hand in his pocket and straightened his tie with the other. “Skip, the pressure to solve this mess is going to be incredible. It’s going to come from every direction, and most of it’s going to be political. I’ll do my best to screen you from it, but I’m not going to be able to block it all.”
McMahon shrugged his shoulders. “Nothing we’re not used to, right?”
“Yeah, but this is gonna be different. My head hurts when I think about all the political pressure that’s going to be put on us to solve this thing. The other reason why I’m putting you in charge is because I know how much you hate dealing with the press and politicians. We can’t have any leaks. Make sure your people know, their careers are over if they breathe a word to anyone outside the unit about the investigation.”
“Understood.”
Roach looked at his watch. “I need you to come to the White House with me and give a quick briefing. It’s driving the president nuts that the only information he’s getting is from the TV.” Roach noticed the frown on McMahon’s face and said, “All I need you to do is give them the basics on what you’ve found at the three crime scenes. Come on, let’s go.” Roach nodded toward his limo and they walked away from the crime scene with the bodyguards in tow.
McMahon and Roach had known each other for a long time. The two men had met when McMahon was a second-year agent and Roach was fresh out of the FBI’s Academy. Over the last twenty-some years, they’d become good friends. Roach, from the start, wanted to rise to the top of the Bureau, and McMahon never wanted to be anything more than an agent. McMahon’s lack of ambition was twofold. First and foremost, he was a realist. He knew himself well and understood that he would never be able to bury his pride and brownnose his way to the upper levels. The director had to be able to play the Washington game, something the elite investigator was not well suited for. McMahon didn’t beat around the bush; if he thought you were wrong, he told you. It didn’t matter who you were. This, of course, had not always gone over well. There’d been several politicians and at least one former director who had wanted his career with the FBI terminated.
Luckily for McMahon, he was very good at what he did. This was the second reason for his lack of ambition. He loved his job. Throughout the Bureau, McMahon was recognized as the best homicide investigator. He was not one to follow FBI procedure like a robot. Other agents from around the country consulted with him on their investigations. He had his own unique way of doing things. During his time at the Bureau he had watched some great investigators waste away after being promoted into cushy administrative jobs. Not Skip McMahon. He had told Roach four years earlier, when his friend became director, “The day you pull me out of the field is the day I retire.”
Before climbing into the director’s limo, McMahon yelled to Kathy Jennings, one of the agents who worked under his command. Jennings was talking to a group of agents, all of whom were wearin
g their standard crime-scene blue FBI wind-breakers. She put her conversation on hold and approached her mentor. Her long auburn hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail. She greeted the director professionally and then turned to McMahon.
McMahon took a deep breath, told Jennings that he’d be back as soon as possible, and then started to rattle off a list of things for the young agent to check on. “Make sure every level of law enforcement within three hundred miles is notified to be on the lookout for multiple males traveling in generic American-model cars.” McMahon began sticking the forefinger of his right hand into the palm of his left hand as he went down his list. “Remind them to arrest anyone who they think is the slightest bit suspicious and to hold them until one of our people arrives. Make sure they understand that last part clearly, and make sure the suspect profiles are faxed to all of their officers. When you’re done with that, find out how the teams are doing with the surveillance tapes at Dulles and National, and if anything comes up, call me immediately.”
Jennings nodded and watched her boss slip into the backseat of the long dark car.