Authors: Stephen Coonts
stripped off his shirt and tie as he stirred through the messages on his desk. “What’s on your mind?”
“The aide said you were over at the White House?”
“Getting briefed. At least that’s what they called it. Jesus, what a day!”
“The networks say that Quayle is calling out the National Guard.”
“Yep.” Cherry found a clean shirt in the closet beside the washroom and put it on. “My clients were hoping that you might oppose that move.”
“Wouldn’t do any good. Quayle’s made up his mind. Not that I disagree with him. He’s right about this, I think.”
Cherry selected a tie from the rack and looked at his image in a mirror as he worked on knotting it. “Just out of curiosity, what’s your people’s beef$7”
“My clients are the people who have contributed generously to your PAC and campaign fund, Senator.”
Cherry made a face. He had assumed that. His estimate of Brody’s political sophistication went down a notch. “What s their beer” he repeated.
“Well, Senator, it’s like this. They think it’ll be bad for their business.”
“Pretty damn shortsighted of them, isn’t it? I mean, tourism and business travel to Washington will fall like a chunk of blue ice with all these killers running around loose. The sooner they’re behind bars the safer everyone will be.”
“That’s just it, Senator. My clients don’t feel that way. They think the FBI and Secret Service can find these people. Baldly, troops are bad for business.”
“Sorry. They’ll have to live with their disappointment.”
Cherry selected a sports coat and pulled it on. He came back around to his desk and pushed a couple of the phone messages away from the others with a finger. “I am in a hurry tonight, Jefferson. I have a couple of calls to make before I leave.”
“Senator, I don’t think you understand.”
“Understand?”
“I’m not asking you for a favor. I’m telling you.” Brody grinned.
The senator straightened. His shoulders went back. “Are you leaving or should I call my aide to throw you out?”
Brody sagged back in the chair and threw one leg over the other. “It’s funny, when you think about it. All those contributions, and you never once had anyone check to see who was actually giving you the money.”
“What … ?”
“FM Development, that’s a real Florida corporation, and the sole stockholder is Freeman Mcationally, a prominent local businessman. Maybe you’ve heard of him? ABC Investments, that’s . . Cherry collapsed heavily into his chair. He stared at Brody.
“I’m sure the FBI could give you a fairly extensive dossier on Freeman Mcationally, Senator. You have really screwed the pooch this time.”
“What do you want?”
“I’ve told you. No National Guard. No troops.”
“No.” Cherry’s face flushed scarlet.
Brody got out of his chair and sat on the edge of the desk. He leaned toward Bob Cherry. “You just haven’t thought this through yet, Senator. When it gets out that you’ve been flying around the country willing and dining and sixty-nining Miss Georgia and paying your campaign bills with drug money supplied by Washington’s biggest crack dealer, your career will immediately hit the wall. Splat! You’ll be finished. 44itil give the money back. I didn’t know! I’ll-was
“Get You politicians sold out to the country-club types who ran out and bought savings and loans. You let them shoot craps with government-insured money-five hundred billion dollars down the sewer. You’ve maneuvered Mm drunken snakes to get yourselves big pay raises. You’ve voted yourselves the best pensions in the nation while you’ve looted the Social Security trust fund. You’ve damn near bankruptedamerica. The voters have to pay for all that! Their children will have to pay for it! Their grandchildren will have to pay! They aren’t going to believe that Bob Cherry was so senile, so abysmally stupid that he didn’t check to see who was stuffing the money into his pocket!”
Brody stood. He buttoned his jacket and adjusted his tie. “All you gladhanding backslappers do little favors for each other-a military base in this district, a sewer system there, a dam over here. Isn’t that the way your exclusive little club works?”
Brody’s voice dropped. “You get busy and call in some markers. Raise some hell. I’d better be reading in the newspaper about your courageous stand to keep democracy in the District and the soldiers out, or come Friday you’ll be reading about some very interesting contributions made by big-name dope dealers to a certain senator.”
Brody paused on the way to the door and turned around. “One more word of advice, Senator. People who cross Freeman Mcationally rarely live to brag about it.”
T. Jefferson Brody’s next stop was Senator Hiram Duquesne’s office. He caught the senator on the way out the door.
“if you don’t mind, I’ll walk along down to the garage,” Brody said.
He broached the subject of the National Guard troops.
“You know,” Duquesne said, “if someone had suggested calling in the Guard this morning after the attack on the Capitol, I would have been against it. But after that shot at the VicePresident I’m for it.
“Gid Cohen’s in bad shape. The doctor thinks he’ll make it. Took that slug in the shoulder. Just missed his left lung by an inch.” Duquesne shook his head. “The rifleman fired from a building five hundred and twenty-seven yards away. Left the rifle and a tripod and a toolbox. Just aimed, fired right through a closed window, dropped everything and walked away.”
“Amazing,” Brody agreed.
“I don’t know what we’re up against here, but this shit has got to stop. Quayle’s doing the right thing. Didn’t think that airhead had it in him.”
“My clients want you to oppose this move. They don’t want the Guard in the District.”
“Sorry, Jefferson. This has gone too far for politics as usual. Quayle has the legal and moral responsibility and he is taking steps. The Senate will back him up every way it can.”
Brody kept silent as they walked past the attendant at the entrance to the garage. He waited until they had reached Duquesne’s car and the senator was fishing in his pocket for the key.
“My client is Freeman Mcationally. Perhaps you’ve heard of him?”
Senator Duquesne pped.
Freemblebtion Mcationally. His reputation is a little unsavory, but he’s a businessman. Pays his legal fees without a quibble. Contributes money to worthy causes. Gives freely to certain politicians. Like you, for instance. He’s given you over twenty-five thousand dollars. Remember FM Development Corporation?”
“Why, you greasy, filthy son of a bitch!”
“Now, now, Senator, let’s not get personal here. You were fi-ee to check to see where the money was coming from, and presumably you didn’t bother. You were free to refuse the money. You never did.”
“What do you want from me?”
“I told you. My client doesn’t want the Guard in the District. He’s contributed generously to keep you in the Senate and he thought you should pull out all the stops and help him out on this.”
“And if I don’t? Come on! Your kind of slime always has a stick handy if the carrot doesn’t work.”
“My client wants to see you right out front, Senator, waving the banner to keep the military out of the District. If the parade leaves without you…” Brody shrugged. “You’re going to have a difficult time explaining away twenty-five thousand dollars in contributions from Washinton’s biggest crack dealer, Senator. Really tough.”
“Get out of my sight, you bastard.” Duquesne balled his right fist and took a step forward. “Think it over, Senator.” Brody took a step backward. “If I were you I wouldn’t throw away my reputation and a Senate seat over this. I’d bend a little and go on down the road.” Brody turned and walked quickly away.
“I’ll see you roast in hell, Brody,” the senator called after him.
Brody kept walking.
Captain Jake Grafton and his staff spent the evening at the Pentagon. They had much to do. The National Guard had already begun mobilizing at the armory adjacent to RFK Stadium, but the usual chain of command was about to be radically altered. Grafton and his colleagues drafted an order for the signature of VicePresident Quayle that placed the Washington Guard unit under the immediate operational command of the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, thereby removing ten or so layers of generals and their staffs from the chain of command. This change had been requested by the White House. The order would be signed first thing in the morning.
After the order had been sent to the chairman’s office for review, and probably for redrafting, Grafton and FBI special agent Thomas Hooper got themselves a cup of coffee and spread a street map of metro Washington upon Grafton’s desk.
Toad Tarkington, never one to be left out, pulled a chair around so he could see.
“I really don’t have time for this,” Hooper muttered. Jake knew that well enough. Hooper looked exhausted. His shirt was dirty and he had spots on his sports coat. He needed a shave. He probably hadn’t been home in several days. But his superiors had sent him over here anyway.
Jake got a yellow marker from his desk drawer and began putting yellow splotches on the map. He marked public buildings, the White House, the Executive Office Building, the Capitol, the Supreme Court, the FBI building, the Justice Department, the office buildings that were used by members of Congress.
Then he handed the marker to Hooper. “Your turn.” Hooper marked the courts, the jail, buildings used by various-other government agencies. When he finished, he tossed the marker on the map. “Twenty-six buildings,” Tarkington said, ever helpful.
“Around the clock, at least three armed men at every entrance.”
Jake pulled a scratch pad over and began figuring. “Anybody want to guess the average number of entrances for each building?”
“Six or eight,” the Air Force colonel said from his seat on the adjacent desk. They discussed it. They used seven. “We don’t have enough men. Nowhere near.”
“Get more,” Hooper said. “Men are the one asset you guys, got lots of.”
“Until we get more-and that will take some time-we’ll have to put maybe one man at each entrance and keep mobile squads nearby to back them up.”
Hooper shrugged. “You realize,” Grafton said, “that all we’re doing here is setting up a shootout if the Colombians or anybody else wants to start something. These troops will be issued ammunition and they’ll shoot. They’ll have to. There aren’t enough of them to do anything else, and they aren’t trained to do anything else. Some of them will be killed. Bystanders will be shot. It’s gonna be real messy.”
“Better not be,” Hooper said. “That’s what you people are supposed to prevent.”
“Let’s trim the list. Protect only key buildings.”
“No. I’ve got my orders. Protecting only key buildings merely sends the terrorists to unguarded buildings.”
“Not if what they’re after is a confrontation.”
shook his head. “The object of terrorism is to the impotence of the government. Give them an and they’ll take it.”
Toad Tarkington spoke up. “How about a trap? Apparently unprotected buildings with a couple squads of soldiers inside?”
“The buildings would have to be empty,” Hooper pointed out. “But without a stream of civiandm coming and going, any observer will immediately see that something is wrong.”
“You’re telling us that this is a no-win situation,” Jake Grafton said. Hooper raised his hands in acknowledgment.
“How did we get to this?” the colonel asked rhetorically. “Again?”
“You can’t win fighting terrorists,” Hooper said, trying to explain. “The politicians-this is just my personal opinion comw never allow you to move fast enough to get the jump on these people. Politicians are reactive, always looking for consensus.”
“Bullshit,” said Jake Grafton. “Politicians aren’t stupid. This is not a conventional war. Every shot fired is a political statement. The politicos intuitively understand that and the guys in uniform had better learn it damn fast. Until we do, we’re not even in the same ballpark.”
Hooper looked skeptical. He rubbed his face and drained the last of his coffee.
Jake Grafton picked up the phone and called the chairman’s office. Anybody who thought Hayden Land was going to lot the terrorists pick and choose their targets, he told himself, didn’t know Hayden Land.
The final fillip of the evening for loyal slaves of the big eye made the eleven o’clock news coast to coast. The networks had footage.
At approximately ten p.m. Eastern Standard Time four cars drew up to a story row house in northeast on-two cars on the t in front, two in the alley, The men in the passenger seats of the cars used Uzi submachiae guns on the men guarding the house, then sat in
the cars and fired a total of twenty-four 40-mm grenades through the windows, totally destroying the interior of the structure and setting the place afire. Then the cars drove away.
None of the witnesses could, they said, describe any of the cars or the men in them. No one could remember a single license number.
Police theorized on camera that the killers had used M-79 grenade launchers. They said the house belonged to a suspected crack dealer, one Willie Teal.
The fire in the background behind the policemen and reporters played on screens nationwide. It was quickly out of control and burned out half the houses on the row.
The following morning when the fire was completely out, officials found fourteen bodies in the house where the fire had started, the one that had been assaulted with grenades. This total did not include the four men shot to death outside. Police also found the twisted remains of over a dozen pistols, three submachine guns, and five pump shotguns. A briefcase containing almost five hundred thousand dollars was in the rubble with most of the bills still intact. Five pounds of cocaine somehow escaped the fire and was discovered in a hiding place in the basement by a fireman searching for smoldering timbers.
Harrison Ronald Ford watched the conflagration on television as he lay in his bed in his room at the FBI dormitory at Quantico. He sipped a soda pop and rubbed his Colt automatic occasionally and listened to the commentators try to sum up the violence and horror of the day.
One earnest female was expounding eloquently when he rose from the bed-and snapped the idiot box off.