Term Limits mr-1 Read online

  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

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  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 they 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.

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  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.

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  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 putt
ing 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

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  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 wearing their standard crime-scene blue

  FBI windbreakers. 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. As they drove down the street, McMahon filled

  Roach in on the specifics of Fitzgerald’s death.

  The director had already been briefed via phone on the murders of Koslowski and

  Downs. The drive from Georgetown to the White House took less than ten minutes. As they pulled into the White House compound, Roach asked, “What are the chances we’ll catch these guys before they get away?”

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  “We have checkpoints set up on all the roads heading out of town, every airport within three hundred miles is being watched, and the Navy and the Coast Guard are tracking every vessel that’s headed out to sea.”

  “So, what are our chances?” McMahon frowned and said, “My gut tells me we’re wasting our time. Whoever did this was good … really good.

  They either left the country immediately or they’re holing up somewhere waiting until things cool down.”

  “You’re probably right. But we have to be really careful on this one. Otherwise, I’ll be sitting in front of a joint committee next year getting second-guessed by a bunch of old men who want to show their voters back home that they know more than the director of the FBI.”

  Roach paused for a moment. “Besides, don’t forget those pros that set off the bomb in the World Trade Center.

  Who would have thought they would have been dumb enough to try and get the deposit back on that van? These criminals aren’t always as smart as we think they are.”

  “Brian, it doesn’t take a great criminal mind to park a van loaded with explosives in the underground parking garage of the World Trade Center.

  But there aren’t many organizations out there who can kill three different people, in three different locations, in one evening, and leave no traces. It’s not like blowing up a pipe bomb at the Olympics.

  Any idiot can leave a bomb in a park. It’s far more complicated to get up close and personal when killing someone.” Roach pondered McMahon’s comments as the limousine came to a stop. The director’s bodyguards opened the doors, and Roach said, “Before we go in, let me warn you about a couple of things. Everyone will understand that you haven’t had a lot of time to prepare for this briefing, so keep it simple and try not to editorialize too much. “The President won’t say a lot, but watch out for Garret.”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t embarrass you … at least not intentionally.”

  McMahon smiled. “One other thing. Don’t stick your neck out too far.

  If they ask you for an opinion, and they will, just tell them it’s too early to tell.”

  McMahon gave his boss another nod.

  “Brian, I have done this before.”

  “I know, Skip, but you haven’t dealt with this administration before.”

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  Roach lowered his voice to a whisper. “Just trust me, and watch what you say.” The director stepped out of the car first. Roach’s bodyguards walked them to the door and into a small foyer. A Secret Service agent approached and escorted them to the Cabinet

  Room. It was not the first time McMahon had been to the White House, but it was the first time he’d been in the Cabinet Room. His other meetings had taken place in either the

  Oval Office or the Situation Room in the basement.

  As McMahon and Director Roach were getting ready to settle into their chairs, the

  President, Garret, and National Security Adviser Mike Nance entered the room with

  Garret in the lead. Garret clapped his hands together loudly.

  “Come on, gentlemen, let’s get this meeting started.” The President took his seat in the middle of the long table. Garret sat immediately to his right and Nance to his left.

  Sitting across from the President were Skip McMahon, FBI director Roach, CIA director

  Thomas Stansfield, and the CIA’s top terrorism expert, Dr. Irene Kennedy. Roach and

  Stansfield introduced their subordinates, and then Garret started the meeting.

  “Well, Director Roach, I sure hope you have some answers for us.”

  Roach looked to the President and said, “Mr. President, with the help of the congressional switchboard and several local police departments, we’ve secured the whereabouts of the remaining five hundred and thirty-two Senators and Congressman.

  All of the Supreme Court justices, Cabinet members, and Joint Chiefs of Staff have also been accounted for. Right now it looks like the only individuals they were aft
er were

  Senator Fitzgerald, Senator Downs, and Congressman Koslowski. “I have a meeting scheduled for one P.M. with Director Tracy of the Secret Service to discuss the resources we have available to provide protection for the remaining members of the House and

  Senate. I have already dispatched agents to protect the most senior members of both parties. Until we know more about what is going on, I think we should play it safe.”

  Roach turned to Nance. “Mike, before I leave, I would like a minute of your time to discuss what resources we may be able to borrow from the military, such as MPs or

  Marines that are trained for embassy duty.”

  Nance nodded and Roach continued, “I’m going to have Special Agent McMahon take over from here and fill you in on the specifics of what happened late yesterday evening and early this morning. When he’s finished, I will bring you up to speed on the interdiction measures we’re taking. Special Agent McMahon has been to all three crime scenes this morning.” Roach turned to McMahon and nodded. McMahon cleared his throat and said, “Let me start by saying that this investigation is only a few hours old, so we don’t have a lot of specifics.” McMahon looked from one end of the table to the other as he spoke. “The first of the three to be killed, and the last to be found, was Senator

  Fitzgerald.

  Fitzgerald’s limousine driven”

  Garret interrupted, “Don’t you have a brief prepared, so we can follow?”

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  McMahon looked at Roach, giving him a chance to respond, knowing his boss’s reply would be more diplomatic than his own. Roach turned to the President, intentionally bypassing Garret. “Sir, we haven’t had time to prepare a report. We will have one on your desk by two this afternoon.”

  “That’s fine. Please continue,” the President responded. Garret shook his head sideways and wrote something down on his yellow notepad.

  McMahon started again. “As I was saying, Fitzgerald’s limousine driver reports dropping the Senator off at his house in Kalorama Heights just after midnight. Our preliminary guess on Fitzgerald’s time of death is sometime between midnight and one—