THE OLD MAN WAS BACK BEHIND THE WHEEL of his rental car and driving across the Arlington Memorial Bridge. When he reached the east side, he got onto the Potomac Parkway and headed north. Exiting off the Parkway, he entered the Foggy Bottom neighborhood of Washington, D.C., less than a mile from the White House. Parking in a ramp where there would be cameras and attendants would not be wise, so he circled and waited for a space on the street. It was just past twelve-thirty and the streets and sidewalks were crowded with people coming and going to lunch. After finding a spot, he got out and left the unneeded cane in the passenger seat. Two short blocks later he found the preselected pay phone, inserted a quarter, and punched in a phone number.
After several rings, a deep voice answered on the other end. “Hello, you’ve reached Special Agent Skip McMahon. If you’d like to leave a message, please do so at the beep. If you need to speak to one of my assistants, press zero.”
The old man pulled a Dictaphone out of his pocket, placed the speaker up to the phone, and pressed the play button. “Special Agent McMahon, we know you have been placed in charge of investigating the assassinations of Senator Fitzgerald, Congressman Koslowski, Senator Downs, and Speaker Basset. We are sending you this message because we do not want to fight our battle in the media. We suggest the president and his people follow suit. We are in possession of several Stinger missiles and could have easily blown Marine One out of the sky this afternoon. You can tell the president that the only reason he is still alive is because we did not want to kill the Marines and Secret Service agents on board.
“If you continue to ignore our demands and manipulate public opinion through the media, we will have no choice but to escalate our war. So far we have assassinated only elected officials, but we are adding the names of Stu Garret and Ted Hopkinson to our list of targets. We are very well informed about what goes on inside the Stevens administration and know that these two men are responsible for most of the lies that have been spoon-fed to the media over the last week. If you continue to label us as terrorists and the president as the noble defender of the Constitution, you will die. This is our last warning. No matter what they tell you, Mr. President, the Secret Service cannot protect you from us. They can make our job more difficult, but they cannot stop us from ending your life. This is your last warning.”
Marine One landed on the helicopter pad at Camp David, and a pale-faced President Stevens was draped in his bulletproof trench coat and rushed into a waiting Suburban. The president sat in the backseat in between two Secret Service agents. No one spoke as the tan truck sped up the narrow, tree-lined path. The Suburban stopped in front of the cabin, and again Stevens was rushed inside. Two of the agents went inside with him, and the other four took up posts outside.
The president stood in the main room and looked at the most senior agent. “Where is Mr. Garret?”
“He’s being brought in another truck.”
There was more awkward silence as the agents averted their eyes from the president’s. Again Stevens looked to the senior agent and asked, “How did they know which helicopter I was on?”
“We don’t know, sir.”
Stevens said nothing; he gave no look or expression of emotion. He continued to stand in the midst of his protectors for another minute, then without saying a word he walked in between them and down the hallway. The agents followed. Stevens entered his bedroom and turned to close the door behind him. The two Secret Service agents came to an abrupt halt.
The president held up his hand. “I want to be alone.”
The agents nodded respectfully and Stevens closed the door. Walking across the room, he took off his jacket and threw it on the bed. With several yanks back and forth, his tie came loose and dropped to the floor. He stood leaning over the dresser staring into the large mirror on the wall. The reality of what had almost happened was starting to sink in. He felt a cold chill shoot up his spine, and his entire body shuddered. Standing up straight, he quickly walked over to the wet bar, grabbed a thick glass tumbler, loaded it with ice, and filled it to the brim with vodka. After taking a large gulp of the cold, clear liquid, he walked over to the fireplace and noticed that it was stocked with wood and kindling. Stevens set his drink down on the mantel and picked up a box of long matches sitting in a basket next to the hearth. Grabbing one of the twelve-inch matchsticks, he struck it across the coarse strip on the side of the box. The matchstick broke in half, and Stevens tried again, this time holding the match closer to the tip. The red tip sparked and then burst into flames. Stevens waited until the wood stem caught fire, then stuck the long match under the logs, lighting the dry pieces of kindling.
The fire caught quickly and he pulled up a chair to watch the flames spread. Sliding off his loafers, he placed his feet on the hearth and took a deep breath. The warmth of the fire helped him relax and momentarily forget about the afternoon’s life-threatening events. He stared into the fire and watched it burst into a full blaze as the white bark on the birch logs crackled and curled from the flames. The images of the helicopter ride began to surface again, and he took another gulp from his drink. But still he saw the flares shooting out of the helicopter next to them, the violent jerking of the craft as it banked and then dropped like a rock, pulling up just short of the river’s water, Stu Garret screaming and demanding to know what was going on, the escorts scattering and the red streaks shooting up in front of them.
Stevens became unsteady again, and he started to shake. He grabbed his drink with both hands to keep it from spilling, his body trembling as he pulled the glass to his lips with both hands wrapped tightly around it. He took four large gulps, finishing the rest of the vodka, and stood to pour another. As he walked to the bar, the murders of Basset and the others flashed sharply across his mind, and he realized for the first time just how vulnerable he was. The crystal tumbler with the presidential seal engraved on the side slipped from his hand and shattered on the stone floor. Stevens continued to the bar and started to pour another drink, the glass neck of the vodka bottle clanging off the rim of the tumbler as his hands continued to shake uncontrollably.
Garret arrived at the main cabin just minutes after the president and went straight to the conference room. He grabbed the nearest phone and punched in the number for Ted Hopkinson’s office. After several rings Hopkinson’s secretary answered and Garret barked, “Get me Ted!”
As each second passed, Garret became more and more irritated. With sweat forming on his forehead, he gripped the phone tighter and tighter. According to Garret’s watch, which he looked at about every five seconds, he had been on hold for two minutes and thirteen seconds when Hopkinson finally came on the line.
“Where in the hell have you been?” Garret spat into the phone.
“Stu, it’s a zoo around here! The press is crawling all over the place. They want to know what the hell is going on. A couple of them just asked me if the president is dead!”
“Shit!”
“Stu, we’ve got to get control of this thing!”
“Yeah, I know, just shut up for a minute while I think of the best way to handle it.” There was a moment of silence while Garret scrambled to come up with a plan of action. “We’re going to have to put him on TV. Grab a cameraman and a reporter from the press pool and get your ass up here.”
“I can’t. The Secret Service has shut the compound down. They’re not letting anyone come or go.”
Garret screamed into the phone, “Screw the damn Secret Service. Thanks to those idiots I almost got my ass blown out of the sky twenty minutes ago. You find Warch and tell him I said if he wants to keep his job to get a chopper for you pronto. If he gives you any shit, find Mike Nance and have him get one from the Pentagon. Get moving!”
“What are we going to have him say to the press?”
“Goddamn it, Ted, do I have to do everything around here! You’re the damn communications director! You’re paid to figure out what he says to the press! Get moving!” Garret slammed the phone down and headed for the door. On his way through the main living room he ran into Special Agent Terry Andrews. Andrews was the Secret Service agent who had been carrying the president’s bulletproof trench coat when they boarded Marine One. Garret approached him and said, “Andrews, I don’t want any crap, just straight talk. What in the hell happened while we were airborne, and how did they know which bird we were on?”
The tall ex-Marine looked down at Garret and replied, “We don’t know how they knew which helicopter we were on, sir.”
“What about missiles? Were there any missiles launched?”
“We’re not sure at this point, sir.”
“What do you mean, you’re not sure? You get ahold of your boss and tell him I want some answers, and I want them quick!” Without waiting for a response, Garret turned and left.