“Why are you telling me all of this if you don’t think I should do anything?”
“I expect you to do something, but before I get to that, I have to ask you some questions.” Augie sucked on his pipe for a while. “When Downs, Fitzgerald, Koslowski, and Basset were killed, I wasn’t real torn up. I hated everything they stood for, and I was glad to see them gone. I’ve thought for a long time that the crusty old windbags in Washington needed to be shaken up.” Augie paused, contemplating how to phrase his next statement. “I have a good idea who was behind the first four assassinations.”
Augie shifted his weight and put one foot on the ground. He looked at Seamus and said, “I could ask a more direct question, but I don’t want to be lied to, so I’ll skirt the issue slightly. If you really had to . . . could you get in touch with someone who is involved in the original assassinations?”
After a moment of silence Seamus said, “Yes.”
Michael’s face remained passive.
“Good.” Augie stood and hobbled to the cab of the truck. “I’ve got something I’d like you to pass on to them for me.” He reached behind the seat, pulled out a large legal file, and walked back to the tailgate. Sitting down with an owly look in his eye, he said, “I think I have everything figured out, but it’s probably better to leave certain things unsaid.” Augie handed the file to Seamus. “Please pass this on to your revolutionary friends.”
“What’s in it?” asked Michael.
“Remember how I told you when I was at the Agency I was kind of a roving analyst? I was also a troubleshooter of sorts. Right before I left the Agency, Director Stansfield asked me to draw up some contingency plans for a . . . delicate operation.”
Seamus looked at the file and then up at his old friend. “What kind of an operation?”
“One that no one other than Stansfield and I were to know about. . . . After Stansfield took over, Arthur became even more reclusive. Stansfield knew that he would have to force Arthur to resign and became increasingly worried about how he would react. There were a lot of concerns that he might turn on us and sell information abroad or use things that he knew to blackmail Stansfield and the Agency. He was a loose cannon, and no one knew which direction he would fire, so Stansfield did the prudent thing and asked me to draw up a plan to neutralize him.”
“The folder contains the plan?” asked Michael.
“Most of it. There’s detailed schematics of his house on the Chesapeake. It gives a rundown on his security system, where its strengths and weaknesses are, how many guards he has and what their rotation is. The plan is a year and a half old, so I’m not sure how much has changed. I do know that he still spends almost all of his time at the house. He has a lot of enemies, which has made him extremely paranoid over the years.”
“Why aren’t you going to Stansfield with this?”
“Arthur is still very well connected at the Agency. No one really knows how well for sure, but there is a chance he would be forewarned about any plans against him.”
“Is that the real reason or are you just looking for someone to do your dirty work?”
“Nope. I’ll be honest with you, Michael. I would like to have Arthur Higgins killed. There was a time when he was good for our country, but for the last fifteen years he’s been out of control. When he left the Agency, he was warned to stay out of the intelligence business. Since then he has been cautioned by Stansfield more than once to keep his nose out of the Agency’s business. I hesitate to take this to Director Stansfield for the reasons I already gave and for the fact that Arthur has a lot of contacts at the National Security Agency. If anything happens to Arthur, they will suspect the CIA.” Augie looked up at the sky for a second. “As to why I’m dumping this on your lap . . . well . . . you gave him the opportunity to kill Olson and Turnquist, and in my book that means you should be the one to stop him.”
Michael stared unwaveringly at Augie and said, “I did nothing. I’m just trying to clean up the mess.”
Augie looked at Seamus. “This is your doing?”
“Yes. Can I count on you to stay quiet?”
“Yes. I happen to think that what you’re doing is about twenty years overdue.” The old spy stuck his hands under his armpits. “We’ve killed politicians in other countries that were far less of a threat to our national security than our own leaders. Don’t you think that during all my years as a covert-operations specialist I thought about doing in America what I was doing abroad?”
Michael nodded, remembering that Scott Coleman had said the exact same thing to him a year ago. Michael changed the subject back to Higgins. “What makes you think we can get to Arthur?”
“I assume that you have some professionals helping you.” Augie paused and held up his hands. “I don’t want to know who they are or what their background is. The less I know about that the better. If they could kill Fitzgerald, Downs, Koslowski, and Basset and vanish without a trace, I assume they’re pretty good. Arthur has one habit that makes him vulnerable. You’ll find it in the file.”
Michael held up the file. “I’m interested to see what’s in here.”
“I would urge you not to waste any time. Arthur may not be done killing.”
30
MCMAHON WAS BACK IN THE JOINT SPECIAL Operations Command’s conference room at the Pentagon, eating a microwaved container of lasagna that was more than a little salty. His entire afternoon had been spent meeting with Harvey Wilcox, the deputy director of the FBI’s Counterterrorism Department; Madeline Nanny, the deputy director of the FBI’s Counter Espionage Department; and Director Roach. Both departments had the equipment and personnel to run surveillance on the fourteen black former commandos who were living in the D.C. metro area. Neither Roach nor McMahon had to ask for the full cooperation of the two deputy directors. Both understood the priority of the task that had been handed to them. Nanny had more available assets, so she took nine of the fourteen dossiers and Wilcox took the other five. They estimated they could initiate surveillance during the next twenty-four hours, and depending on the individual movements of the suspects, they could have airtight surveillance established within seventy-two hours. The total number of agents to be involved was calculated at 140.
McMahon finished explaining the details of the surveillance to Kennedy and General Heaney right about the time he finished eating the lasagna that he knew would give him heartburn. He slid the Styrofoam box off to the side and asked General Heaney if he had any Tums.
The general produced a roll and tossed it across the table. A moment later one of the general’s aides entered the room and handed him a computer printout and a cover sheet. Heaney thanked the young officer and glanced over the cover sheet. “Our computer ran a search for any former commandos living within a hundred miles of Washington, D.C. It turned up ninety-four SEALs, eighty-one Green Berets, and sixty-eight Delta Force commandos.”
McMahon’s face twisted into a painful look. “That’s over two hundred possible suspects.”
“Yes, but that was before we directed the computer to narrow the search to only commandos that had served with the fourteen black commandos.”
“What did that bring the numbers down to?”
The general glanced down at the sheet. “ Twentysix Green Berets and nineteen Deltas.”
Kennedy peered over the top of her glasses. “What happened to all the SEALs?”
The general read over the summary for a moment. “There are only two former SEALs who fit the description of the assassin that killed Downs, and they both live in San Diego.”
While Kennedy wrestled with that piece of information, McMahon asked, “Where are we going to get the resources to tail forty-five people around the clock?” Looking to Kennedy, he asked, “Irene, do you have the manpower to handle this?” Kennedy was staring off into space, and McMahon repeated the question. Kennedy still didn’t answer, so McMahon snapped his fingers. “Earth to Irene, come in.”
Kennedy’s eyes came back into focus. “Excuse me.??
?
“Do you need a break?”
“No, I’m fine. I was just thinking about something else.”
McMahon repeated, “Do you have the assets to conduct around-the-clock surveillance on forty-five suspects?”
“Yes.”
“How?” asked McMahon with a disbelieving look on his face.
Kennedy started to give her answer, then stopped, saying, “You don’t want to know.”
“No, I suppose I don’t.”
“General Heaney,” said Kennedy, “would it be possible for me to take a look at all ninety-four files of the SEALs that live in the D.C. area?”
“Why?”
“I have a hunch.”
McMahon’s ears perked up at the word hunch. He believed strongly in intuition and hunches. “Let’s hear it.”
“I’m not comfortable with dumping ninety-four potential suspects based on a piece of information that I’m not sure I trust.”
“What piece of information are you referring to?” asked McMahon.
“The black assassin in the park. These people have done everything perfectly with one exception: they exposed the guy in the park when we all agree the correct way to kill Downs would have been with a concealed rifle shot.” Kennedy took her glasses off and rubbed her eyes. “We have let this one piece of possibly flawed evidence steer our entire investigation in a very specific direction. Based on this one piece of information we have excluded all SEALs from our investigation.”
“That’s what investigations are all about, Irene,” said McMahon. “You analyze evidence and narrow your search.”
“That’s assuming the evidence is untainted.” Kennedy rose and started to pace. “There is only one logical reason for them to put him in the park, and I can’t believe I didn’t see it earlier. They put him there because they wanted him to be seen.”
“Why would they want him to be seen?” asked Heaney.
“To throw us off. What if the guy wasn’t black? What if they made him look like he was black?”
“Why would they want us to think he was black?”
McMahon saw where Kennedy was going. “If they were SEALs, they would.” The room fell silent while the pieces fell into place for Heaney. McMahon stood and rolled his sleeves up. “General, I think we had better take a look at those files. While we’re doing that, I’ll have my people initiate surveillance of the fourteen black commandos. Irene, you get your people moving on the other commandos, and we’ll have to consider investigating any SEALs on a case-by-case basis.”
An irritating noise broke the silence of the predawn morning. A hand reached through the darkness toward the red, blinking digital numbers and found the alarm clock. A second later the noise was silenced. O’Rourke rolled over and wrapped himself around Liz. The previous evening had been a quiet one. Liz had finished writing her column about nine and came over with a movie. Luckily for Michael, she was tired and not in the mood for conversation. Thirty minutes into the video they were both asleep.
Michael was trying his best to make things seem normal and was, for the most part, succeeding. It helped that Liz was busy with her job. Michael couldn’t get Arthur Higgins out of his mind. After returning from Georgia, he had gone to the Congressional Library to see what he could find out about the former head of the CIA’s most secretive branch. He came up with nothing, which only added to the mystery.
Michael brushed Liz’s hair aside and kissed her naked shoulder. She turned her head slightly, and he kissed her cheek. O’Rourke kissed her one more time and got out of bed. Grabbing a pair of sweatpants from a hook on the door, Michael put them on and headed downstairs. Duke met him at the bottom of the stairs and followed him into the kitchen. The coffeemaker was filled to the top and started. All of his hunting gear was kept in the basement. After descending another flight of stairs, Michael opened the closet and put on a pair of wool socks, khaki pants, a blue flannel shirt, and a pair of boots. The rest of his gear was kept out at the cabin along with several shotguns. By the time he got back up to the kitchen, the pot was done brewing. He poured the whole thing into a large thermos and filled a travel mug for the road. Duke was at his feet stretching and yawning. Before leaving, O’Rourke went back upstairs, set the alarm clock for 7 A.M., and kissed Liz on the cheek.
Down in the small garage of the brownstone, Michael loaded Duke into the back of the truck and opened the garage door. Less than five minutes later, he pulled up in front of his brother’s house. Tim, Seamus, and Tim’s chocolate Lab, Cleo, climbed into the truck, and they headed toward the cabin. Against Michael’s wishes Seamus had told Tim everything that had happened over the past two weeks.
For the majority of the drive they discussed the information they had learned from Augie. When they arrived at the cabin, Coleman was already there. He was waiting inside at the kitchen table. The O’Rourkes pulled up chairs, and the coffee mugs were filled to the brim.
When everyone was settled in, Coleman eagerly asked, “What have you found out?”
“Have you ever heard of a man named Arthur Higgins?”
Coleman squinted. “Yes.”
“Have you ever met him?”
“No.”
“What do you know about him?”
“He’s an old spook over at the CIA. He handles a lot of dark operations and has a reputation as a man you don’t screw around with.”
“What do you mean by dark operations?” asked Tim.
“Covert operations that are funded from nongovernment sources and run without the official knowledge of the president and the Intelligence Committee.”
“Have you ever been involved in one of these operations?”
“No.” Coleman shook his head. “They use mercenaries . . . former commandos. These things can’t be connected in any way to our government. The whole reason they are run as a dark op is because the spooks know they could never get official approval. They have to have complete deniability if anything goes wrong. The money can’t be traced back to the U.S. and neither can the soldiers. Before the SEALs or any other American military personnel can be sent into a foreign country to conduct a covert operation, the CIA or the Pentagon has to get approval from a ranking member of the Intelligence Committee and the president. Dark operations completely circumvent the chain of command. It’s a strange world, very secretive and risky. Everything is done unofficially and without a paper trail. All you ever hear about these people are whispers and rumors. I actually know some former SEALs who have worked for Higgins.”
“Do you think you could talk to them and find out what they know about him?” asked Michael.
“I could, but Higgins is the type of person you don’t just start asking questions about, or you might end up as shark bait.”
“I thought you SEALs were a tight group. Can’t you ask them a few questions without raising too much attention?”
“Maybe, maybe not. This isn’t like calling up an old high school buddy and asking him about a girl he used to date. These are serious people and they don’t like questions. They prefer to stay anonymous and quiet.”
“What in the hell are a couple of former SEALs doing working for a guy like Higgins?” asked Tim.
“What do you expect them to do when they leave the service . . . go sell used cars or program computers? We are trained to do a very specific job, and trained to do it better than anyone else in the world. If you’re a SEAL, you’re better than ninety-nine point nine percent of all the soldiers who have ever laced up a boot. You are the best of the best, and do you know what you get paid? . . . You max out at about forty grand a year. Then one day you leave the service and you’re confronted with two options. You go to work in the private sector in a boring nine-to-five job and get paid about the same as when you were in the military, or you go to work for some guy like Higgins and get paid six figures plus for working about fifty days a year. And guys like Higgins aren’t the only people who want you. Big-time drug dealers, oil sheikhs, third-world governments, international ba
nkers, they’re all willing to pay big bucks to have a SEAL on their security staff. I know guys that are getting paid a half a million a year to sit around and play bodyguard. For a lot of these guys it’s a status thing to be able to say their bodyguard is a SEAL. In the Middle East our reputation alone scares the shit out of people.”
“I understand your point, but I thought you guys had an honor code,” said Tim.
“We do, but we’re not an infallible fraternity. We have our bad apples just like any other organization. The reality is there are people who are willing to kill for money, and once they cross that line, they are no longer part of our brotherhood . . . they are assassins and mercenaries.”