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 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?”
“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.” 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 congressmen. 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 after 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 driver—”
Garret interrupted, “Don’t you have a brief prepared, so we can follow?”
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-thirty A.M. The cause of death appears to be a broken neck. We’ll know more after the autopsy is completed.” McMahon paused for a second. “The back door of Fitzgerald’s house shows signs of being picked, and his security system was defeated on-site. Fitzgerald’s body was found shoved into a closet in the basement. Our best guess right now is that the perpetrator, or perpetrators, were waiting inside the house when Fitzgerald got home, killed him, and then moved the body to the basement.” In a bland tone McMahon added, “We are questioning the neighbors to see if they saw anything last night, and a forensics team is going over the house checking for evidence.”
“Agent McMahon, you sound as if you don’t expect to find anything,” interrupted Garret again.
McMahon looked at Garret hard. “Whoever killed these men is very good. It is highly unlikely that they left any useful evidence behind.” He continued to stare at Garret without saying anything until the president’s chief of staff looked away.
“Congressman Koslowski was the next one to die. From what we know so far, Koslowski got out of bed around six A.M. and was shot in the back of the head twice. The shots were fired from a high-powered rifle and were taken from the house across the street. The house belongs to Harold Burmiester, a wealthy, retired banker. When we entered the house this morning, we found that the phone line had been cut and the back door was missing a pane of glass. Burmiester’s German shepherd was unconscious and, we presume, drugged. Burmiester was found tied up in a bedroom on the second floor. The screen had been removed on the window directly across from Koslowski’s bedroom, and there were powder burns found on the windowsill.
“After talking to Burmiester, we’ve pieced together the following details: Just before eleven P.M. last night, Burmiester let his dog out. At this point, we think the dog was probably drugged. Burmiester went to bed around midnight in the bedroom where the shots were fired from. Sometime between twelve-thirty A.M. and five-thirty A.M. the perpetrator or perpetrators broke into the house, rendered Burmiester unconscious, and moved him to a different bedroom. They waited, and when Koslowski opened the doors, they took their shot. We’re having some blood tests done on Burmiester and his dog, and we should know whether or not they were drugged by early afternoon. The crime boys are going over both houses and the neighbors are being questioned.”
“Where was Koslowski’s wife during all of this?” asked Garret sarcastically.
“Mrs. Koslowski sleeps in another room.” McMahon again attempted to ignore Garret’s irritating manner.
The coolly detached Mike Nance was observing McMahon. Nance, a graduate of West Point and a former director of the National Security Agency, usually stayed quiet in meetings. He preferred to sit back and take everything in. Unlike Garret, he believed a person could learn more by watching and listening than by asking questions.
With his eyes still focused on his notepad, Garret shouted out another question. “Has anyone reported hearing shots?”
“No, the distance of the shot was only about one hundred feet. Short enough that a silencer could be used without affecting the accuracy of the shot.” McMahon continued to speak without giving Garret a chance to ask more questions. “As I’m sure everyone has heard by now, Robert Downs was killed in a park by his house, over in McLean. Two nine-millimeter rounds were fired into the back of his head at point-blank range. We have a description of a possible suspect from a woman who walks in the park every morning. She says that she passed Downs on the walking path this morning at approximately the spot where his body was found. She, along with several other people, have reported seeing a black man dressed in sweats, standing by a tree about twenty yards from where Downs was killed. None of these people say they’ve seen the person in the park before. Their guess is that he was around thirty years old. Our agents are still interviewing these people, trying to get as much information as possible. I apologize, gentlemen, for the lack of details, but, as I said earlier, this investigation is only a few hours old.”
“Thank you, Mr. McMahon,” said the president. “I fully understand that we are still in the early stages of this investigation, but nonetheless, I would like to hear some opinions. Does anyone have any idea why these three men were killed, and by whom?”
As usual, Garret was the first, and in this situation the least qualified, to respond. “Until we know more, I think it’s a pretty safe bet that it’s a terrorist group. One that’s probably not so happy about the peace that’s spreading in the Middle East, or one of those wacky militia groups from out West.”
The president turned to the director of the FBI. “Brian, what are your thoughts?”
“Sir, it’s too early to give an informed answer. There just isn’t enough data to make an intelligent assumption. Almost anything could be possible. It could be anyone.”
The president looked to McMahon and asked, “Mr. McMahon, I know we don’t have all the facts, but please speak your mind.” The president stared at McMahon and waited for a response.
“Well, sir, we have three important politicians murdered at three different locations within a five-hour period. Whoever pulled off this operation had to have been planning it for a long time. They took the time to study their targets and carefully picked when and how to kill each one. They were probably well financed and had access to some very talented killers. Those killers could be terrorists, ex-military commandos, or hired assassins. Given the information we have right now, your guess is as good as mine.”
The president nodded and looked at his chief of staff.
Garret took the cue and said, “Gentlemen, the president needs to address the nation and try to explain what’s going on. Now is not the time to be shy with your opinions.” There was a long silence, and then Garret looked to the head of the CIA. “Director Stansfield, what’s your take on what happened?”
“I would caution against drawing any conclusions until Special Agent McMahon and his people have had time to investigate.” Stansfield’s response was again followed by an uncomfortable silence. Both Director Stansfield and Director Roach had seen how Garret and President Stevens liked to operate, and neither felt the need to commit to anything with so many questions still unanswered. Roach and Stansfield had both started at the very bottom of their respective agencies, and over the years, they’d seen presidents come and go, and with them, their political appointees who ran the CIA and FBI. Some of these directors were more loyal to the man who had appointed them than to the agency they were supposed to be running. Not Roach and Stansfield: to them the FBI and CIA came first. Political expediency and posturing were things they liked to avoid at all costs. Political solutions were often good for the short term, and for the people making them, but they were more often than not disastrous in the long run.
The president sat back in his chair and quietly cursed himself for not replacing Roach and Stansfield when he had taken over the White House. Garret had wanted both men replaced, and Stevens was sure he would be reminded of this as soon as the meeting was over. If we hadn’t had such a hard time getting cabinet members confirmed, Stevens thought to himself, none of this would be a problem.
During the first six months of the Stevens administration, four consecutive cabinet nominees had been shot down. Three had had to bow out after intense scrutiny by the press revealed some minor misdoings in their past, and the fourth made it to an actual committee vote but was embarrassingly rejected. By the time the cabinet was filled, the administration had expended so much political clout and had received such a grilling from the press that they decided rather than risking another potentially embarrassing confirmation hearing, they would be better off leaving Stansfield in charge of the CIA until a more opportune time arose. The president was coming to the realization that he had waited too long.
Stevens looked at Kennedy, the CIA’s terrorism expert. “Dr. Kennedy, what is your opinion?”
Kennedy had the highest IQ in the room by a significant margin. The thirty-eight-year-old mother of one had a Ph.D. in Arabic studies and a master’s degree in military history. The doctor leaned forward and took her glasses off. Her sandy brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she was wearing one of her trademark pantsuits. She placed her arms on the table and started to speak in a confident tone. “I would have to concur with Special Agent McMahon. The men who conducted this operation are either terrorists, hired assassins, or military commandos. My assumption is that it was the latter of the three.”
Garret blurted out, “What makes you so sure about that?”
“I think they were military commandos because Mr. Burmiester is still alive.”
Garret’s face squeezed into an irritated frown. “Mr. Who?”
“Mr. Burmiester, the man who lives across the street from Congressman Koslowski. If the people who ran this operation were terrorists, Mr. Burmiester would be dead. Terrorists do not go to the effort to anesthetize people who are in their way. They kill them. If terrorists did this, Mr. Burmiester would be dead as well as the woman who was walking in the park. These murders were committed by military-trained commandos.
“Terrorist and military commandos go through very complex training, and on the surface most of it is similar, such as hand-to-hand combat, demolition training, firearms training, et cetera. However, they are trained very differently in objective and operational planning. Terrorists do not care about human life. They operate by a different set of rules. Terrorists are trained to take out their target in a way that is usually very violent. The more violent the better. When they kill, they try to strike terror into the minds of the public. Hence the label terrorist. They use car bombs or they machine-gun people down with absolutely no concern for innocent lives.
“Commandos and assassins, who are almost always ex-commandos, are trained to kill only whom they need to, and to do it as quietly and quickly as possible. Commandos operate within certain moral parameters. There have been occasions, during times of war or national emergency, when those parameters were bent, and military commandos have killed an innocent bystander. This, however, is the exception to the rule, whereas with terrorists, killing innocent bystanders is the operational norm.
“When we look at conducting an operation like this, we choose our targets and then decide what is the best way to kill the least amount of people and get our assets out safely.”
Garret was irritated by Kennedy’s confident tone. “You seem awfully sure of yourself, Dr. Kennedy. Are you ruling out the possibility that these murders were committed by a terrorist group?”
“I do not think they were committed by a fundamentalist terrorist group. A group that, as you said earlier, would be unhappy with the peace that is being made in the Middle East. As far as the murders being committed by a group of domestic terrorists, such as one of your antigovernment, Aryan Nation types … I highly doubt they would have the trained personnel it would take to pull something like this off. Besides, why would they kill someone like Senator Downs? He’s pro-NRA and pro-military. He’s one of the few politicians those militia members like.”
Garret gestured toward Kennedy. “Well, I’m glad to know that after hearing a ten-minute briefing, you’ve solved the case for us.” Garret chuckled mockingly at Kennedy. “How can you say that so emphatically, with such little information?”
McMahon stared at Garret and thought to himself, God, this guy’s an ass. Director Roach saw the look on McMahon’s face and placed his hand on his friend’s arm. McMahon pulled away and leaned back in his chair, continuing to stare at Garret.
Kennedy was used to men challenging her intellect and continued to defend her opinion in a professional tone. “It is my job to know how these groups kill, Mr. Garret. If a group, such as Abu Nidal, had committed these murders, they would have simply gone down to one of the more popular dining spots in town, planted a bomb, and exploded it during lunch yesterday. They would have easily killed a dozen senators and congressmen, and probably a few cabinet members.”
“Why couldn’t it have been a domestic right-wing paramilitary group?”
“It’s possible, but as I said earlier, I don’t think those groups have the resources to conduct an operation like this.”
In a loud voice Garret half shouted, “If you’re so sure that it wasn’t terrorists, then who did it?”
McMahon leaned forward in his chair and placed both forearms on the table. At six foot three, 240 pounds, he looked like a bear ready to attack. Before Roach could react, McMahon was speaking. “Mr. Garret, we are all professionals here. There is no reason to get emotional and raise our voices. You asked for our opinions and Dr. Kennedy has respectfully done so. She has given us some very intelligent insight into a case where it is greatly needed. She is not trying to tell us exactly who did it, she is merely helping us narrow our search.” McMahon continued to stare at Garret as the chief of staff flushed angrily.
Mike Nance could not believe what he was witnessing. He had seen Stu Garret act like this in countless meetings during the last three years. It was a rarity to see anyone put him in his place, let alone an underling from the FBI. The tension in the room continued to build as McMahon refused to back down. Director Roach was sitting back in his chair, hand over brow, dreading what might happen next.
The president ended the confrontation. “Everybody calm down.… We are all under a lot of pressure, and I’m sure it’s only going to get worse. Let’s relax and discuss Dr. Kennedy’s theory.”
While the meeting continued, Bridgett Ryan sat in her cubicle across town at NBC’s Washington bureau and tried to look busy. Bridgett was a senior journalism major at Catholic University and was in the middle of a one-year internship with NBC. Her boss was Mark Stein, the network’s D.C. bureau chief.
Bridgett’s work schedule varied depending on her daily class load. This morning she had rolled out of bed at 9 A.M., found out about the murders, and instead of going to class, went straight to the studio. She’d been there for over an hour and a half and had done little more than pour coffee and scribble notes for Stein. She was sitting at her little desk outside of Stein’s office when the mailman came by and dropped a bundle of letters on her desk.
One of her daily tasks was to open and sort her boss’s mail. She pulled the rubber band off the stack and grabbed a large manila envelope from the bottom. It was addressed to Stein but contained no return address. She grabbed her letter opener, sliced through the top of the envelope, and pulled out the sheets of paper. After reading the first paragraph, her heart began to race. She started to read again from the top, and this time her hands began to tremble. She took a deep breath and read on. After finishing, she jumped up and threw open the door to Stein’s office. Ryan yelled his name and held the sheets of paper up in the air. “Mark!”
Stein, who was on the phone, looked up and waved her away. He swiveled in his chair and turned his back to her. He was talking to his boss in New York. “Carol, I need more video crews, damn it! I need more reporters. How in the hell do you expect me to get all this footage for you? It’s a goddamned zoo down here. We’re falling all over each other trying to get the story. It’s too big, we need more people!” Bridgett walked around his desk and waved the envelope in his face. Stein pulled the phone away from his head and placed his free hand over the receiver. “Bridgett, I’m busy! Not now!” Stein started to bring the phone back to his head, but Ryan was not to be deterred.
“Mark, this is really important!” She thrust the papers and envelope forward. “We just got this in the mail. It’s addressed to you and I think it’s from the terrorists!”
Stein grabbed the sheets of paper and started reading quickly. His boss could be heard in the background asking what in the hell was going on. When Stein was finished, he yelled into the receiver, “Carol, go to your fax, this is big!”
Garret had calmed down and was noticeably quieter. McMahon and Kennedy were discussing the latter’s theory when the door to the Cabinet Room opened and Jack Warch entered. He was the special agent in charge of the president’s Secret Service detail. “Excuse me, gentlemen, NBC is announcing that they have a letter from a group claiming responsibility for the murders.”
Warch proceeded to the wall behind the president and opened a large cabinet containing a bank of six television sets. He turned on the four to the left, which were pretuned to the major networks and CNN. The top right TV was carrying the NBC signal. He turned up the volume and stepped away. The familiar face of George Blake, the NBC news anchor, appeared on the screen.
“I would like to caution you one more time that this letter is from a group that is claiming responsibility for the murders of Senator Fitzgerald, Senator Downs, and Congressman Koslowski. We have no proof that they are actually the group that committed the murders. The letter was received by mail at our Washington, D.C., studio just moments ago. It states the following.” Blake looked down and read from the fax paper:
“‘In 1776 the founders of the United States of America sent a Declaration of Independence to the King of England. In that Declaration, Thomas Jefferson wrote “that whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive… it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government.” We are invoking this right to rise up and alter the course of our government. You have had your chance to correct America’s course, and you have failed.
“‘Senator Fitzgerald, Congressman Koslowski, and Senator Downs were killed as a warning to the president and the remaining members of the House and Senate. Your days of deficit spending and partisan politics are over. During the last twenty-five years, you have spent money we do not have on federal programs we do not need. Every year you have promised the American people that your number one priority is to cut spending and balance the budget. Despite these promises the federal budget has continued to grow.
“‘You have had the time and the opportunity to bring spending under control and you have done nothing. You have shown that your own personal greed and the goals of your political parties are more important to you than the economic security and future of America. As a result of your selfish and incompetent leadership, we are now burdened with a national debt that is more than five trillion dollars. A national debt that is growing at a rate of more than a billion dollars a day and is projected to reach ten trillion dollars by the end of the century. If the national debt is not confronted, it will plunge our country into economic chaos.
“‘The time to act is now. We are directing the president to withdraw his budget that is before the House, and with the help of the Office of Management and Budget and the General Accounting Office, to construct a balanced budget using zero-based budgeting. This budget will contain no new or raised taxes and will cut all unneeded federal programs. It will introduce means testing to control the growth of Social Security and Medicare and will adopt the military cuts as proposed by the Joint Chiefs without political interference. After this budget is passed, the president will submit a national crime bill that will focus on keeping violent criminals off the streets and in jail. The president, the House, and the Senate shall also implement a two percent national sales tax to be used solely for the reduction of the national debt.
“‘If you are incapable of restoring the limited form of government that the framers of the Constitution intended, quit and go home. We will be watching your actions closely. This is the only warning we will give. If you do not respond to these demands, you will be killed. None of you are out of our reach—not even the president.’”