Shari Cohen stayed active in the Operations Room trying to glean current information from the Italian, Russian, French, and German intelligence agencies. So far nothing had come from the Islamic sources residing in those countries besides praise for the Soldiers of Islam, which only fueled her frustration. She was trying to track something that seemed to have no substance.
Needing time alone to regroup her thoughts, she returned to her office when the phone began to ring. “Special Agent Cohen.”
Pappandopolous’s bass-heavy voice was unmistakable. “Paxton’s about to address the nation on behalf of the president,” he said, “and the attorney general wants you to sit up and take notice. When Paxton gets off the dais, the AG wants you to take over the reins.”
“Why? What’s going on?”
“Just watch,” he said. “You got a couple of minutes before Paxton goes on.” He abruptly hung up.
She placed the receiver back into its cradle and rubbed her eyes. Looking into a full-length mirror on the wall and not liking what she saw, she retrieved a brush and compact from her purse and did a cursory makeover. After trying to smooth out the wrinkles in her skirt that had grown into pleats, she gave up and went to the luncheon area where TV screens projected from every corner of the room.
Billy Paxton appeared on each monitor, looking polished. He wore a fresh shirt and tie, the colors matching, a dark blue tie against a baby blue shirt. His hair no doubt had been coiffed by an on-site stylist.
Once at the podium he went into the scripted diatribe against the Soldiers of Islam. He revealed who they were, where their cell group initiated from, their backgrounds, and then the photographs of the six remaining terrorists.
Shari was pleased. Now the Soldiers of Islam could no longer hide behind their masks.
For thirty minutes Shari watched Billy Paxton take center stage before returning to her office, her mind racing, only for her thoughts to come to a startling halt when she saw Punch Murdock sitting in her office. She recognized the man by his broken nose, the appendage leaning noticeably to one side of his face.
“Can I help you?”
Murdock stood holding his hat in one hand and a manila envelope in the other. “Ms. Cohen?”
“Yes.”
Murdock smiled and gave a perfunctory nod in greeting. “My name is Marion Murdock,” he said. “I’m here because—”
“Punch Murdock,” she interrupted.
His smile broadened. “You know of me?”
“Of course.” She held her hand out to him.
“Oh, yes.” He laid his hat on the chair and took her hand warmly. “I’m so pleased to finally meet you,” he told her. “I’ve always heard about the great things you’ve done for the department over the years.”
“And the same goes for you,” she said. “I’ve finally met the man behind the myth.”
Murdock nodded, his face flushing just a bit. “I think perhaps the legacy has been embellished,” he informed her.
“I don’t know,” she said. “The word in the White House corridors is that you’re the real deal.”
All of a sudden the man’s smile left him, making him difficult to read. “Not anymore,” he said. “I’m sure you’ve heard about my detail?”
She nodded. “I have. And I’m sorry for the families who have lost a loved one. Please accept my condolences. I know it’s never easy to lose team members who have become friends.”
“They were good people. They didn’t deserve this.”
“Nobody deserves something like this.”
Then, pointing to the seat where he had just laid his hat, Murdock asked if he could sit down.
“I’m sorry — yes, of course. Please, have a seat.”
After removing his hat from the chair and placing it on the corner of Cohen’s desk, Murdock handed her the manila envelope.
“What’s this?”
“CSI reports regarding the findings within the Governor’s Mansion and the complete and extensive dossiers on the Soldiers of Islam. I understand you’re to be privy to all the facts. And just to let you know, Ms. Cohen, the president has the same set of paperwork, as does the attorney general and the other responding agencies who want to know where the blame lies so they can cover their asses.”
She looked directly into his eyes and noted the solemn despair behind them. “I’m truly sorry for the loss of your team,” she said.
“I appreciate it, but you know as well as I do that all political fingers will be pointing in my direction. That’s the business we’re in, Ms. Cohen. So that legacy you alluded to earlier seems a bit less meaningful, don’t you think?”
“It’s not your fault, Punch. You weren’t even there.”
“That’s the point. As team leader on such an important detail, I should have been.”
Shari observed the classical signs of survivor’s guilt. “Nobody knew this was going to happen.”
“Of course not, and that’s why my team became complacent. They should have been better prepared. And if I had been there, they would’ve been.” He raised his hand as if to apologize for his sudden rise in volume. “I’m not yelling at you,” he said. “I’m just frustrated, that’s all.”
He then pointed to the envelope in her hand. “You’ll probably want time alone to read that over,” he added. “So I’ll be on my way.” He stood, grabbing the fedora off her desk. “I just wanted to meet the Shari Cohen that I’ve heard so much about,” he added.
She smiled. “You’re very kind.”
At that point he raised a finger, indicating one last thing. “As a courtesy to me,” he began, “and since the hammer is about to fall on me because of the failure of my detail, all I ask is that you keep me in the loop if you should come across anything.”
Shari hesitated, her shoulders slumping in apology.
Murdock understood. “Don’t worry. Nobody wants to jeopardize his own career by dealing with damaged goods,” he stated, putting on his hat. “I can’t blame you.”
“It’s not like that at all.”
“Really.”
“Protocol dictates that we deal only with the agencies directly involved in this matter, for fear of misappropriation. You know that.”
Murdock feigned a smile. “It’s nothing personal, Ms. Cohen. I was just asking for a favor, and I fully understand your position. I probably would have done the same if I was in your shoes.” Before closing the door behind him he made one last remark. “I was told to bring that report to you because it appears I have been relegated to the role of gofer. So much for the myth you were talking about earlier,” he said. “I guess you’re only as good as you were the day before. So be careful, Ms. Cohen. Even though you’re a legend today, you may be a has-been tomorrow. Have a good day.”
After he closed the door she opened the flap and took out a manuscript at least seventy pages thick.
She began to read. The report covered every aspect of the crime scene testing.
Only indigenous prints had been found; however, there was absolute proof that some areas had been sanitized. She had to wonder why the Soldiers of Islam had concealed some facets of the slaughter and then deliberately left behind the bodies of al-Hashrie and al-Bashrah as a calling card.
She then cross-referenced the dossiers with the assassins’ methods. The president’s men had been murdered either by garrote or by well-placed kill shots, methods of specially-trained assassins. Yet the dossiers of the Soldiers of Islam stated that they had gone through nothing more than basic training. Even if she assumed that their basic training was a precursor to more specialized military training, the facts did not add up. According to the timeline, after their basic training was completed, they were immediately shipped off to the States to become computer jockeys for recruitment purposes and cyber spying. They were not soldiers of elite status.