The Third Coincidence (25 page)
to carry out your orders.”
188 David M. Bishop
It occurred to Jack that having the president as your blocking back certainly opened the holes. It also eliminated all the excuses if he didn’t get the ball into the end zone.
Colin and Rex headed for the sitting area in the middle of the room.
“Rachel,” Jack said, “get with the folks down the hall. We need to contact every shooting range within a hundred miles of Dallas, and two hundred miles of D.C. It takes lots of practice to hit the back of a man’s head at five hundred yards. Have each range give us a list of all their members. If they keep a list of their nonmember shooters, we want that as well.”
“How far back?”
“We need current memberships and a list of members who have dropped out within the past ten years. Do the same for nonmem- bers. We’ll pick up the lists. See Rex for manpower. Get those lists combined into one master list broken down into subcategories: members, former members, and nonmembers. Show names and the dates each used the range. Group them by years. I want full names, not just first initials. LW should be somewhere on those lists.”
“What do you want us to do?” Frank asked.
“You two have flown to Oregon and Cleveland, then last night to Dallas, go home. Sleep. Keep your cell phones close. I’ll let you know if anything pops.”
“We’re okay, Jack.” Frank protested.
“Jack’s right,” Nora told her partner. “We’ll be more productive.” She grabbed Frank’s arm and started him toward the door.
“I’ve got Rex off on his assignment,” Colin said after coming back into the Bullpen and approaching Jack. “What next?”
Jack held up two fingers. “Contact General Crook to find out if it’s feasible to trace the sales of FLIR scopes. It’s military technol- ogy so the general should be able to tell us if that trail can be fol- lowed. And catch up with Rachel. We also need lists of public figures, college professors, politicians, entertainers, and candidates for national office with a history of railing against the Fed or the
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Supreme Court.” He held Colin’s forearm while he thought, then added, “Say five or more times. Have the lists grouped according to the number of times each spoke out. I also want a copy of their arti- cles or speeches.”
“Over what period of time?” “What do you suggest?”
“Well, we’re putting LW’s age at thirty to thirty-five years old,” Colin mused. “Impressionable years for intellectual subject matter start around age ten. Let’s go back thirty years just in case he’s a bit older than we’re thinking.”
“Do it. I want an estimate of how long it will take to develop that list. If more manpower or resources are needed, tell Rachel to get them. If she needs me to pull strings, have her tell me.”
Jack returned to his gray, government-issue chair, leaned back, and stared at the ceiling.
We’re getting closer, you son of a bitch.
CHAPTER 38
LW toys with McCall in a macabre game in which he sees America’s future as the spoils.
—Mel Carsten, D.C. Talk
Jack gave up on sleep, brewed some coffee, and sat down at his chess- board. His opponent, Harry, had posted his next move. It appeared that Harry was attempting to checkmate Jack’s black king within the next five moves. Jack’s own planned checkmate on Harry could take only four moves. Jack took his next move, and posted it as Nb4 on the Chess Forum.
Before the sun came up, Jack pushed through the door into the Bullpen and found Millet hunched over his computer. For the next several hours the whiz worked in silence except for periodically swearing at one of the cups of hot chocolate that had betrayed him by turning cold.
Jack had chosen Millet in part because of his intellectual tenac- ity. The man would not stop once a computer project captured his mind.
At five thirty, Jack heard someone come in and looked up to see Rachel. She mumbled good morning, dropped her purse on her desk, and went back out the door, assumedly to check on the round- the-clock development of the lists of shooters and dissidents.
A little after six, the phone rang. Clancy Stafford, the president’s chief of staff, had a deep, rich voice smooth enough to play the lead in Rodgers and Hammerstein’s
Oklahoma.
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Clancy’s message was simple. “The president wants to see you at four thirty this afternoon.”
“Go right in,” Ms. Gruber said, opening the door. “The president and the others are already inside.”
Others?
President Schroeder’s bloodshot eyes told Jack that he, too, had been putting in long hours. Clancy Stafford and the directors of the four primary federal intelligence agencies, Miller, Hampton, Quartz, and General Crook were seated. The president was already pacing. NSA Director Quartz, who always dressed to the nines, wore a black suit with gray pinstripes, a gray display hanky peaking from his breast pocket like a cautious mouse about to leave its hole. General Crook looked as if he had skipped the morning trim that usually kept
his wiry mustache as precise as the edge on a bayonet.
The always tight, slick-looking bun in CIA Director Harriet Miller’s hair had more than the usual number of escaped strands.
“Thanks for coming on such short notice, Jack,” the president said. “We need an update. I know about your finding LW’s setup across from the home of Chief Justice Evans. The Supreme Court is being held together by little more than the strength of his per- sonality. His loss may well have shut down the Court in a more pro- found way than a temporary inability to seat six for the required quorum. Bring it all together for us, Jack.”
“The bottom line, sir, we think we’re close. We don’t yet know LW’s real name. We have a few aliases he has used, but that does little more than confirm we’re on his trail.”
General Crook, his voice dry as beach sand, said, “What sup- ports the view that you’ve cut his trail?”
President Schroeder stopped pacing and stood with his hands clasped behind him.
“We believe LW is operating alone,” Jack said. “No militia. To us, LW means Lone Wolf.” Then he reviewed the physical description they had for LW.
192 David M. Bishop
“You’ve just described a good percentage of the men who walk past the White House every day,” Fred Hampton said, after Jack had finished.
“True. Still, it does eliminate other descriptions. Since he killed Capone in Dallas, we’ve added that LW is an accomplished marks- man.”
“So you believe his claim of a volunteer recruit is bogus?” Quartz asked, scoffingly. “You see this LW as one man dashing back and forth across the country alone killing officials? I don’t know about the rest of you, but for me that dog don’t hunt.”
“For a long time I shared your hesitance, Director Quartz,” Jack told him. “That’s why, at the start, we assumed the militia existed, but over time our thinking changed. The manner of each assassina- tion required only one person, and Colin Stewart has developed a timeline that allows for one man to have committed all the killings. We’ve found air passengers flying alone under aliases that fit that timeline. We’ve reduced the number of uncleared passengers to a little over a dozen, including those aliases.”
“Why don’t we just pick up the whole lot and shake ’em out later?” Quartz persisted, before poking his mouse hanky deeper into his breast pocket. “We’ve got to stop these killings.”
The president ignored Quartz and kept his focus on Jack.
“We could do that,” Jack replied, “but I doubt we’d find our guy. We’re all but certain the male passengers with phony names was LW. We need to stop him not scare him off so he can come back later.
“We believe LW lives within a reasonable drive of D.C.,” Jack went on. “We also believe his background includes military, intelli- gence, or law enforcement training. This is consistent with his use of the term ‘stand down,’ his sharpshooting skill, and his ability to get black market guns, explosives, and fake identification. Various police departments and federal agencies, including Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms, are pressuring their snitches for the sellers of these items. Given the time needed for the surveillance of his targets, we esti- mate LW has been planning all this at least two years. Assuming
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that’s true, any leads about his purchasing weapons and false iden- tification are probably cold. Still, those efforts continue.”
Jack could feel the doubt coming from these leaders of the in- telligence community. From the start, Quartz had been strongly opposed to Jack being in charge of this investigation. Harriet and the general remained supportive, but the pressure had grown in- tense. Fred Hampton, a team player who hated the politics of it all, would do his job properly, but otherwise remained somewhat aloof after the FBI had not been the lead. To stay in the saddle, Jack had to sell the president. Having said that, politics were fickle, and tele- vision had convinced the American people that any problem should be solved in an hour, two at the most. Without clear results soon, someone’s head would have to roll. Someone’s? Hell. It would be Jack’s head and he knew it.
“Your agencies are putting together lists of current and former agents and military personnel who have shown a pattern or tendency for violent behavior,” Jack continued. “Current personnel are being eliminated through confirming their whereabouts at the times of the killings. Former personnel are taking longer.”
Quartz leaned down to rub out a smear on the polished toe of his wingtip. “Are you suggesting this LW is a federal agent or a member of our armed forces?”
“We hope not, but we can’t dismiss it on blind pride. LW is knowledgeable about things that could well have been learned through such service.”
Jack uncrossed his legs and sat back, pausing to meet the eyes of the president and each of the directors before going on. “We believe LW has been negatively influenced by his father. We had just begun developing that angle when Clancy called to arrange this meeting.” “It seems,” Bob Quartz said through a carnivore grin, “that you’re making a lot of assumptions about weapons and ID, that he has no
militia, and so on and so forth, without a full investigation.”
Jack fought off his rising irritation with Quartz’s condescending tone.
194 David M. Bishop
“None of us want this to settle into a multiyear investigation,” Jack replied, straining to keep his voice even. “We’re doing just what the president ordered. We leave procedural leads and heavy man- power tasks to the FBI. My squad follows our instincts. That requires we make assumptions, but we do not fall in love with them. To the contrary, we continue to reassess and refine as we go. In general terms, our efforts are more like that of a small covert foreign opera- tion than a full-blown domestic investigation.”
“Could this be the work of foreign terrorists?” Harriet Miller asked.
“It’s always possible. Early on we all assumed that, but we quickly put the thought on the back burner.”
“And why is that?”
“Because none of your agencies or those of our international friends have heard the increased electronic chatter we commonly experience either just before or after major acts of terrorism. Nei- ther the profiles we’ve developed of LW nor the analysis of his com- muniqués suggest someone from the Middle East or any other region of the world. Furthermore, the wording of the note LW left in the Harrelson house across from the chief justice’s residence re- flects a decidedly American sense of humor.”
Jack turned to address the president, whose facial features sagged enough to show the demands of his office. “As you said, Mr. Presi- dent, we started out knowing nothing about this LW or his militia. We’ve used instincts and assumptions to narrow the field. We think we’re on the right track, but I cannot report that with certainty.”
Schroeder rubbed his hands together. “Everything you’ve told us seems well thought out. I know you’re still looking for a needle in a haystack, but it sounds as if you’re reducing the size of the haystack. What can we do to help?”
“Continue to have your agencies do what they’re already doing, Mr. President. If we can keep the targets safe for the next week or so, we may be able to get this job finished without any more deaths. This is far from a promise, but another week or so may do it.”
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“Some of these folks here think the country could use some reassurance that we’re making progress,” the president said. “That it might take the jitters out of the market. We’ve been discussing the benefits of having you do another press conference.”
Silence hung in the air like hot breath on a cold day.
“If you order it, sir,” Jack said after a pause. “I’ll do it, but if you’re asking for my opin—”
“That’s exactly what I’m doing.” Schroeder’s eyes were intent on Jack’s. “What’s your opinion?”
“A press conference would not be wise from the perspective of catching LW, as for the politics of it, that’s not my area.”
Clancy Stafford rested his head back into his interlaced fingers. His speech still smacked more of his self-made industrialist back- ground than his later-in-life college years. “Why would a little old press conference keep us from catching this guy?”
