Term Limits (19 page)

The man pressed the play button on the recorder, and a computerized voice emanated from the small speaker. “Do not hang up. This message is from the group that is responsible for the killings of Senator Fitzgerald, Senator Downs, Congressman Koslowski, and Speaker Basset.”

The twenty-three-year-old receptionist felt her heart jolt. She panicked for a moment and then remembered that all calls coming into the main switchboard were recorded.

After a short pause the recording continued. “Speaker Basset was killed because he and the rest of his colleagues have failed to take our demands seriously. We are not terrorists. We have killed no innocent civilians; in fact, we have gone to great lengths to avoid doing so. We are not, as the White House has led the media to believe, part of a conspiracy to topple the Stevens presidency. We are a group of Americans who are fed up with the corruption and complete lack of professionalism that exists in Washington, D.C.

“We gave you a chance to implement in a peaceful, democratic way the reforms you have been promising. You have failed to do so, so we have intervened. Do not test us again or we will be forced to impose more term limits. We have the resources and the resolve to kill any congressman, any senator, and even the president.

“We will grant a cease-fire and give you the remainder of the week to bury Koslowski, Downs, Fitzgerald, and Basset. After they have been laid to rest, we expect immediate action on the reforms we have proposed.”

IT WAS STILL LIGHT OUT AS HARRY DORLE passed through the Secret Service checkpoint and parked his car outside the staff entrance to the West Wing of the White House. Getting out of the car, he asked himself for the hundredth time since the shooting how the assassin had gotten away. The police had sealed off the entire block within minutes of the attack. All of the people who had evacuated the smoke-filled building had been roped off and were being questioned for the third and fourth time by the FBI and the Secret Service. So far, every one of them had checked out as a legitimate office worker. The building had been searched with dogs and was empty. What a mess, he thought to himself. I've had twenty-three good years and now this.

As he reached the entrance, Jack Warch opened the door. “Harry, I'm sorry … I'm really sorry.” Warch had replaced Dorle as the special agent in charge of the presidential security detail. The two men had known each other for most of their professional careers.

Dorle nodded his head in acknowledgment, but
kept his eyes averted. They walked to the main floor, Warch leading and Dorle following, neither saying a word. When they reached the door to the Roosevelt Room, Dorle stopped and asked, “Jack, is the president in there?”

“No, he's over on the residential side talking to Mrs. Basset.”

Dorle looked down at the ground and shook his head. Warch put his hand on his friend's shoulder. “Harry, it wasn't your fault.”

Dorle looked up. “Yeah, yeah, I know.”

When they entered the room, Stu Garret was pacing back and forth talking to Alex Tracy, the director of the Secret Service. Mike Nance was at the far end of the table, sitting by himself and observing the conversation between Garret and Tracy. Garret turned and stopped speaking as Warch and Dorle entered. The room fell silent and no one spoke for a moment.

Director Tracy finally broke the silence. “Gentlemen, please sit down.” Everyone sat with the exception of Garret. Director Tracy looked at Dorle. “Harry, are you all right?” Dorle nodded his head yes, but said nothing. Tracy stared at him a while longer and went on, “Harry, have you met Stu Garret and Mike Nance before?”

“No.”

There was another awkward silence while Dorle waited for Nance or Garret to say something, but neither made the effort. Then Garret stepped toward the table. “Agent Dorle, we have been receiving reports all afternoon and we know the basic facts about what happened. What we don't know,
and what I would really like to know, is,
how
did it happen?” Garret said in one of his more confrontational tones.

“What do you mean ‘how'?” asked Dorle.

“I'll tell you what I mean by
how.
I want to know
how
in the hell the Speaker of the House, the third most powerful man in this country, was killed in broad daylight while he was surrounded by a dozen Secret Service agents and police officers.” Garret leaned over, placed both hands on the table, and stared at Dorle as he impatiently waited for a response.

Dorle looked at Garret and realized how this meeting was going to go. He'd heard all about Garret and his style, so he sat up a little straighter and prepared himself for the confrontation. It had been a long day and Dorle was not in the mood to be dumped on. His face tensed slightly as he spoke. “Speaker Basset was killed because he refused to cancel a public appearance. He was warned that we could not guarantee his safety, and he chose to ignore our advice.”

“That's bullshit, Dorle. He was killed because you and your men didn't do your jobs. It's as simple as that.” Garret banged his fist on the table.

Dorle rose out of his chair to meet Garret eye to eye. “Oh, no, you're not.” Pointing his finger at Garret, he said, “I'm not going to sit here and let you hang the blame for this on me.”

Garret interrupted Dorle and shouted, “Agent Dorle, you are in the White House, and I run the show around here. You will sit your ass back down right now and keep your mouth shut!”

“I don't give a flying fuck if you're the king of Siam! I told him it wasn't a good idea to go out in public, and he ignored me. I did my job, and if Basset would have listened to me, he'd still be alive!”

Garret looked over at Director Tracy and screamed, “I want this man fired right now!” Without waiting for Tracy to respond, Garret snapped his head around to Warch and pointed at Dorle. “Get him out of here now! I want his ass thrown out on the street!”

Dorle went to step toward Garret, and Warch rose out of his seat, blocking him. “Harry, it's not worth it.”

“Bullshit, I don't need this crap. I've been around too long to take shit from this little Hitler.”

Garret looked back at Director Tracy. “I want him fired right now! I want his badge before he leaves this building.”

Warch pushed Dorle out the door and closed it behind him.

Dorle was shaking and his face was red from yelling. “Jack, I'm not going to take the blame for what happened to Basset.”

“I know, Harry. I know, just relax.”

Dorle took a couple of deep breaths. “I haven't lost my temper like that in years.”

“You've had a long day, and Garret doesn't usually bring out the best in people.”

“I can't believe that guy. Does the president actually listen to him?”

“I'm afraid so.”

Back in the Roosevelt Room, Mike Nance stood and gestured for Garret to follow him. He opened a
door at the opposite end of the room and walked across the hall to the Oval Office. Garret walked around the large table and through the door. When he entered the Oval Office, Nance closed the door behind Garret and stood staring at him for a full thirty seconds while he waited for Garret to calm down.

In a steady voice Nance said, “Stu, you've got to learn to control yourself.”

“Mike, this whole damn thing is falling apart. We've lost Koslowski and Basset. Do you know what our odds are for getting him reelected with those two dead?” Garret held up his hand and formed a zero. “They're zip, Mike. You and I are going to be out of a job next year. This whole thing is falling apart, and it's because idiots like that Dorle can't do their job.”

Nance looked at Garret and wondered momentarily if he really was nuts. “Stu, you have to get ahold of yourself. A lot of things could happen between now and election time. Losing your temper doesn't do us a bit of good. We have a lot of work to do tonight, so calm down. The important thing right now is to get the public behind us. We have to find a way to turn this thing around. It's not going to be easy, but we have to keep our heads.”

Garret nodded in agreement and Nance said, “Let's go back in there and keep our cool.”

Speaker Basset had left the Capitol's underground parking garage in a black limousine less than twenty-four hours earlier. He was now being returned in a black hearse. As the vehicle rolled to a stop, the back
door was opened, and a special detail of six military personnel in dress uniform lifted the flag-draped casket out of the hearse and onto a gurney.

After consulting with Speaker Basset's family, President Stevens had given the order to make arrangements for Basset to be included in the already planned ceremony for Senator Fitzgerald, Congressman Koslowski, and Senator Downs. All four of the deceased had stated in their wills that they were to be buried in their home states. With the obvious security issues arising from the string of assassinations, it was decided that it would be best to have Basset join his three fallen comrades rather than have a separate ceremony in two days.

After a short elevator ride to the main level of the Capitol, the gurney was discarded and the special detail carried the coffin down the hallway, across the cold, stone floor, and laid it on the rectangular, black catafalque. The four flag-draped coffins sat underneath the center of the Capitol's large dome, each one pointing outward, marking the four major points of the compass. It was almost 10 A.M., and with the exception of a military color guard, the rotunda was void of all people.

One by one, the families were given a private moment alone, to mourn over the coffin of their deceased relative. Each family took about half an hour, and at noon the media was let in and allowed to start coverage of the event. The cameras started to roll, and the senators and congressmen filed in to pay their last respects. Just after 2 P.M., the legislators were shuffled off into secure areas of the Capitol, and the doors were opened to the public. A
steady stream of people filed by the coffins until just after midnight, when the crowd started to thin.

Senator Erik Olson was sitting in his study trying to decide if he should go against the wishes of the president, the FBI, the Secret Service, and his wife. It was almost 1 A.M., and he couldn't sleep. Too much was on his mind. He knew that the right and honorable thing to do would be to walk behind the caissons as the procession of coffins were moved from the Capitol to the White House. The daring daylight assassination of Basset had made every congressman and senator realize just how vulnerable they all were. Basset had been given more protection than any of his colleagues, and they'd still gotten to him. Not only did they get to him, but they got away without a trace.

The FBI and the Secret Service were not taking any more chances, and the politicians who were still alive had become extremely agreeable in the wake of the recent events. Earlier in the day, when the final security arrangements were being made for the funeral procession, it had been decided by the Secret Service and the FBI that no one, not even family members, would walk in the open, behind the caissons. None of the senior senators and congressmen had argued. They were not eager to join the ranks of the fallen four.

But for a variety of reasons, Olson felt that he should walk behind the caskets. First of all, it was a tradition that should be kept and honored, and secondly, he felt that someone needed to show that the government of the United States was not
afraid. Someone needed desperately to look like a leader. Every politician in the country was cowering behind locked doors and bodyguards. Olson couldn't blame them, especially the ones who had been unscrupulous during their time in Washington. The senator from Minnesota had gotten along with all four of the dead men, but he held no false illusions about their character. They were four of the most unethical politicians in Washington.

Olson was a historian by training and was more worried about the broad implications these murders would have on the future of American politics. History was the great teacher, he had always told his students. History repeated itself for many reasons. Mostly because people really hadn't changed all that much over the course of modern civilization, and more so because history set precedents and gave people ideas. Olson did not want what was happening in his country to become a precedent. The events that had started the previous Friday needed to be stopped and dealt with in a swift and just manner. There was no room in a democracy for terrorism. Someone needed to stand up; someone needed to act like a leader. Someone needed to walk behind those caissons tomorrow and show that he was not afraid.

The silver-haired Swede pictured himself walking alone on the slow, one-mile journey and wondered if any of his colleagues would have the courage to join him. He started to mentally scroll through a list of names, searching for someone who would be bold enough to accompany him. After a
brief moment, a name popped into his head and he went no further. Reaching for his phone, he dialed the number.

Michael patted Duke on the head and dropped his keys on the kitchen counter. As he picked up a stack of mail, he was relieved to see Liz's purse sitting by the phone. O'Rourke quickly thumbed through the mail and then set the entire stack back on the counter. He yanked his tie off and started to unbutton his shirt as he headed for the stairs. Duke followed, and Michael stopped in the front entryway and said good-night to his canine buddy.

It was late, he was tired, and he needed to talk to Liz. Guilt was starting to weigh heavily on his shoulders. The young congressman plodded up the stairs and into his bedroom. Liz was sitting on her side of the bed reading a book and wearing one of his gray University of Minnesota T-shirts. Michael smiled at her and sat down on the edge. Liz set her book down and took off her glasses. “You look like crap, honey.”

“Thanks,” O'Rourke grimly responded. He dropped his face into his hands and groaned.

Rubbing his back, Liz asked, “What's on your mind?”