The President's Assassin (6 page)

But now I knew all the players, and I found myself wondering about the heavy mix of national security officials in this room. I had observed no sign or evidence that what happened at the Belknap residence this morning was more than a domestic murder. Obviously, somebody knew something that hadn’t yet been shared or divulged.

But Peterson was moving things along; he fixed us all with a grave stare and said, “At around 6:20 this morning, Terrence and Marybeth Belknap and four Secret Service agents were coldly murdered. Terry and Marybeth were close friends of mine. They were fine people. I’m sure they were friends to several of you in this room.”

Several heads bobbed up and down. The Belknaps weren’t my friends, or even my acquaintances, but I recalled those toys in the basement and did feel a pulse of sadness. Then I thought of sweet little June Lacy with the bullet through her throat and felt a burst of genuine regret.

He cautioned, “You’ve all seen or heard about the note. So you know we’re facing a serious emergency. In the event you’re wondering, the FBI has the lead. Speaking for the country’s intelligence agencies, I pledge our full assistance until the killers are found and stopped.” Having dispensed with the pieties and pro forma claptrap, he faced Townsend and said, “Mark, I’m sure you have some thoughts to add.”

“A few thoughts, yes.” Townsend stood, tapped his watch, and informed us, “In forty minutes, Director Peterson and I will brief the President. We will therefore listen to Special Agent Margold’s preliminary report, and then leave it in your hands to get this investigation organized, up, and running. The hourglass has been overturned, ladies and gentlemen. The killers promised more murders within the next two days. Whether they have the capability or not, we must take this seriously. In fact, some of you around this table might be targets. You should take a moment to think about that.”

He paused very generously to allow us that moment.

No eye contact was made, and nobody gasped, fled from the room, or passed around final bequests, but clearly this was an unwelcome reality—a few people at this table might think twice before putting a down payment on a condo in Florida, or even buying a full gallon of milk. No doubt Peterson and Townsend had rosy bull’s-eyes on their prominent backsides. Mrs. Hooper, because of her prestigious portfolio and high public profile, could well be morgue bait. But the rest of us appeared to be free and clear, except as target practice.

In a world of haves and have-nots, being a have-not is not always a bad thing.

Anyway, the mood was set. Six people were dead, murdered, and it was up to Margold to explain how, and then for all of us to figure out why, and by whom.

Townsend pointed at Margold and said, “Proceed.”

CHAPTER FOUR

M
Y NEW PAL
J
ENNIE SPOKE FOR FIFTEEN MINUTES
. S
HE USED A FELT-TIP
marker and wallboard to create a visual of Terrence Belknap’s home and security systems, took everybody through the arrival of the government car, through the perp’s walk up the pathway, then through the trail of death from the front door to the basement. She was indeed very bright. She spoke articulately, minimized the FBI jargon, knew which details were important, had good recall, was organized and succinct, and she had a pleasant voice. Wisely, she did not speculate, or even elaborate beyond the facts.

She finished up by saying, “We in the FBI classify murders into two broad categories: organized and disorganized. This might sound generic, even oversimplified. It is not. It’s a very complicated judgment and we draw many inferences and discoveries from those classifications. Unquestionably, this was an organized killing.”

From my observation of the faces of the players around the table as she spoke, nearly everybody had listened attentively, raptly, even apprehensively. Mrs. Hooper fell into none of these categories, tapping her pencil on the table, yawning, totally bored and disconnected. She put down the pencil and asked, “Is there a relevance I’m supposed to draw from that observation?”

“Well...it has great pertinence to those involved in the hunt for the murderers,” Jennie replied. She paused. “Here’s what’s noteworthy to you. During my years in the Behavioral Science Unit, I observed over three hundred murder sites and studied countless others. This killing...it’s one for the books...flawless intelligence, preparation, and execution. This operation was planned weeks in advance. We should expect...well, whatever they have planned over the next two days, expect the same pattern.”

“The leopard doesn’t change his spots. Tell us something we don’t know.”

Jennie nodded. “All right. Here’s what’s curious...even alarming. It is axiomatic in our business that political assassins are disorganized. Their motives may be myriad, but their profiles and patterns are not. They are nearly all social losers, frustrated individuals, of low intelligence and ability. They fixate on the target and the statement they want to make. They take only elementary precautions to avoid evidence and witnesses, to create an escape plan, to avoid detection. In fact, nearly all political assassins
want
to be identified. Irrelevance is the mental hell they’re trying to escape.”

“All right, what was their motivation?”

“There’s no way to know. Not yet.”

“At what stage will you know? After the President’s dead?”

Set aside the nasty tone, and Mrs. Hooper had posed a pressing and beguiling question. Jennie replied, “If they have a message, they’ll choose the time and place to convey it.” She added, “Personally, I’m not sure they have a message.”

“And what would you call the note they left?”

“I haven’t read it. I’m not prepared to analyze it.”

“But you know what it said.”

“I heard a summary. It didn’t sound like a message. It sounded like...like an announcement—a taunt.”

She was right, it did. I mean, they open the game by capping the President’s right-hand man, and then leave a note that reads,
Up Yours, more to follow, then the big guy himself.
These people had big egos
and
brass balls. But gosh, wouldn’t we all look bad if they got away with it?

Surveying the faces around the table, Jennie asked, “Other questions?”

After a moment, Townsend asked, “How long were you in the house?”

“Twelve minutes, sir. Two sweeps.”

“Twelve minutes?” Those unblinking eyes regarded Jennie for a full ten seconds. The effect was unsettling, almost creepy, like staring at a dead fish and waiting for it to speak. But eventually the lips parted and he said, “That was an impressive analysis for such a short time.”

“Thank you, sir. Mr. Drummond here was invaluable. He figured out there was more than one killer, and he pointed out a number of other clues I might have overlooked.”

“That’s why we have teams,” Townsend replied. “We all bring something to the party.” He then said, “You have some speculations and leads, I assume.”

“I do.”

“Proceed.”

“We believe the killers had a detailed understanding of the security. They knew how to circumvent the security systems, they may have known a female agent would answer the door, and apparently they knew Terrence and Marybeth Belknap breakfasted together.” She paused, then added, “They knew exactly how to deploy themselves in order to kill everybody in that house efficiently and simultaneously.”

Mr. Wardell of the Secret Service didn’t like the direction she was going and said, “I hope you’re not implying that one of our people might be involved.”

“I implied nothing.”

“You’d better not.”

Jennie nodded. Though of course she had implied exactly that, and Mr. Wardell worked up a little steam. “Look...before anyone jumps to a bad conclusion, the Secret Service has been officially guarding the President and his people since 1902. Can anyone here name a single instance of betrayal?” He looked at the faces around the table and added, very insistently, “No federal agency matches our vetting and security procedures.”

For a moment the room was silent. Then Phyllis Carney commented, “Charles, I don’t mean to be contrary, but really...we at the CIA take a backseat to nobody when it comes to safeguarding against traitors and betrayals.”

It took a moment before we all realized the sound we heard was Charles Wardell’s balls rolling around on the floor. He said, “I...I didn’t mean to imply that our systems are airtight.”

Margold nodded appreciatively in Phyllis’s direction and said, “Anybody with knowledge about the security at that house needs to be put under a microscope immediately.”

Townsend turned to Wardell. “Provide that list to Meany this morning. And for impartiality’s sake, the Bureau will handle the interrogations and investigation.”

Poor Mr. Wardell did not look happy to carry that word back to his beloved Service. He was realizing, of course, that the crap was about to rain on the American praetorians and there was not a big enough umbrella to hide under. At least he could look his peers in the eye and claim he fought the good fight.

Townsend glanced back at Margold and asked, “Further leads? Speculations?”

“Well, the driver, Larry Elwood, and the location of his car have to be targets of immediate and primary interest. Elwood is a suspect, obviously. However, his car arrived five minutes late and his face is not visible on the videos. This could imply his car was hijacked and the man on our tape is an impostor. Also, the car is a mining site for forensics.”

“Good point.” Townsend turned to George Meany. “What are we doing about the car?”

“An APB has been issued.”

“Not enough. Scramble helicopters and notify every local jurisdiction to conduct a street-by-street search. Put out a description to every tolltaker in the five-state region. Assume they changed plates. Focus on the car model.”

George was furiously scribbling all this down on a notepad.

Townsend studied him and said, “By nightfall, every black Lincoln Town Car from Baltimore to Richmond better have been stopped at least a dozen times.” To underscore that, he added, “My official car included. If I don’t get stopped and searched, I’ll have somebody’s head.”

Jennie suggested, “We should also send agents door-to-door in the Ballantrae Farm neighborhood, asking if anybody saw anything this morning.”

I suggested, “In any of the weeks leading up to this morning. The killers no doubt staked out the Belknaps’ house well in advance.”

Townsend looked at Meany and commented, “It’s an exclusive neighborhood. Strangers would be noticed.”

Actually, anybody not in a Brooks Brothers suit and a hundred-thousand-dollar luxury car would stick out like a purple banana on that block.

Meany needed to get a point on the board and suggested, “Also, every police district and sheriff’s department from Baltimore to Richmond should be told to report any murders, killings, or serious incidents to us immediately. We can’t afford a delay in notification.”

My personal feelings about George aside, he was smart and competent, and it was a timely suggestion. Washington, D.C., is an annual contender for the murder capital, and a relevant murder could easily get lost or misplaced in the city’s embarrassment of riches. Following up on George’s thought, I asked, “Exactly what is everybody outside this room allowed to know?”

I thought for a moment I was going to be asked to leave. But Peterson shook his head and said, “Leave it to Drummond to drag the elephant into the room.”

George Meany chuckled. Jennie smiled, and everybody else stared at me. I take a bit of getting used to.

But apparently this question fell into Mrs. Hooper’s basket, who said, “I haven’t decided. For now, Terry Belknap is at home with the flu.” She glanced at Peterson and Townsend and instructed them, “You two go brief the President. I’ll let you know.”

Power is a weird thing. Theoretically and on paper, the Directors of the FBI and CIA are higher in the food chain than some lady who came to town on her boss’s coattail and did not need permission from Congress for her corner office in the West Wing. Yet this brief exchange cleared up any messy confusion about who was who in the pecking order. I really missed the Army, where everybody has their rank on their collar. The rank doesn’t always tell you who’s actually in charge, but it does tell you who can and who can’t screw you.

Anyway, they both nodded and departed, and Jennie Margold and I exchanged troubled looks. As soon as the door closed, Jennie addressed Mrs. Hooper and asked, “Are Drummond and I missing something? The White House Chief of Staff’s dead. You can’t hide that.”

It was an interesting question, and apparently a provocative one, because for a moment it just hung in the air. Then Phyllis, my boss, said, “It’s...well, it’s a little more complicated than that, I’m afraid. We probably should have seen this coming.”

“Why?”

“Well...the bounty.” She studied a spot on the wall for a moment. “Somebody has offered a reward of one hundred million dollars to whoever murders the President of the United States.”

Shit.

CHAPTER FIVE

O
N THAT BIZARRE NOTE
, G
EORGE
M
EANY LOOKED DOWN THE TABLE AND
said, “I have calls to make. Take fifteen minutes to freshen up, then we’ll decide what comes next.”

The room swiftly emptied, except for Phyllis and me. Phyllis pretended to ignore me while everybody filed out, then I was hard to ignore. She said, “It sounds like you did a splendid job. Jennie Margold was very complimentary.”

“Agent Margold was preoccupied with the ton of shit on her shoulders. I had nothing better to do.”

“Yes, I’m sure. But I’m glad you gained her trust and confidence.”

“Really? Why?”

Phyllis approached this question with the delicacy it deserved. “Surely it is no secret that the FBI and our Agency occasionally fail to communicate in a...well, a timely and effective manner.”

“I had no idea.”

She forced a smile. “Must I actually explain this to you?”

“Yes.”

“All right. In addition to assisting the investigation, I expect you to be a conduit of information. Pay attention to what the FBI is learning and relay that back to me.” She added, “Of course you can feel free to selectively pass on any information from our shop that might help the Bureau.”