“Which one of you D.C. clowns let this idiot from the Post in here?” Murdock’s face was red, the man livid. Spittle flew from his lips as he spoke. “This is a secured area, even from the press! Get this piece of crap out of here and maintain the premises. Nobody in or out unless they’re from county, state, or law enforcement! Got it?”
The officers, galvanized by Murdock’s tone, grabbed the reporter by the back of his arm and began to usher him from the room.
“Murdock!” Yzerman said over his shoulder. “Do you want to make a comment about your team’s inadequate protection of the pope? Any comment at all?”
Murdock stood silent as he watched the officers force the man toward the exit. He weighed the reporter’s question in his mind, the words bearing an uncomfortable heft.
Fighting for calm, Murdock closed his eyes and stood waiting for tranquility to wash over him, for the anger to melt away. He stood in silence, only for Yzerman’s questions to bounce back and strike a chord that would stay with him throughout the day and establish a mood that would remain raw and irritable.
Entering the spacious dining room where the bodies of Agent Cross and the downed terrorists lay, their remains draped with sheets, Murdock examined his surroundings. From the East Wall the gallery of governors stared omnisciently at him. Murdock looked at the oil paintings with a less than appreciative eye, knowing the truth of what they had witnessed would forever remain unspoken. Dismissing the paintings, he turned a keen eye back to the scene.
Tony Denucci was an investigator for the FBI who specialized in kidnappings. As a youth he was tall and broad with strong facial features. Now he was tall and gangly with a face that had grown long and jaded from witnessing too many tragedies. When he walked he did so with a stoop, his body bowing in the shape of a question mark. Over the years he had become nothing more than a husk of his former self.
Murdock clapped his old friend on the back. They had come up together from the academy some twenty-four years ago, each rising from the trenches to become experts in their respective fields. “How you doing, Tony?”
Denucci looked at him with the red, rheumy eyes of an alcoholic. “Hey, Punch.”
“Got anything?”
“Nine dead all together,” he said. “Two cops, four agents, the governor’s wife, and two intruders. You might want to take a look to see who they are.”
Murdock already knew who they were; the whole world did. They were the self-proclaimed warriors from the Soldiers of Islam.
Murdock raised the sheet from the first body, saw it was Cross, and immediately covered him back up. Upon examining the other two, there was no doubt they were of Middle-Eastern descent. He also noticed the ink on their fingertips was still wet. Their prints had already been taken and were now being processed through the FBI’s watch list and Interpol systems. Whoever they were would not remain a mystery for long.
Murdock got to his feet as Denucci continued to offer more information, using his pen as a pointer. “It looks as if the whole detail was taken by surprise,” he told him. “Not a single man’s weapon was drawn, with the exception of that agent lying over there.”
“That would be David Cross. A good man.”
“Other than him, it looks as if they were all killed before they knew it.”
Murdock ambled around the scene with his hands dug deep within the pockets of his overcoat. “Are you doing the Incident Report for Pappandopolous?”
Denucci nodded. “Yeah. And you?”
“The president wants a first-hand account of what happened here. He doesn’t want to wait for the preliminaries.”
Denucci stepped carefully around the bodies and made several notations in his pad. “Sad thing, isn‘t it?”
Murdock agreed.
“What’s even sadder is that we never saw it coming.”
“And there was nobody in the vicinity that saw or heard anything?”
“Nobody.” Denucci pointed his pen at the oil paintings. “It’s too bad they couldn’t tell us anything, huh?”
Murdock just laid a hand on his old friend’s shoulder. “Look, Tony, if something comes up will you let me know? Give me something to go on?”
“Sure. If something comes up.”
Murdock gave him a wink. “Thanks, buddy. And hey, don’t be a stranger. Let’s go on a booze cruise some time and tell war stories.”
“Yeah. Sure.”
Murdock exited the Governor’s Mansion and took stock. Beyond the police tape, the mob of onlookers had grown exponentially since he entered the house. Vans with microwave dishes now lined up by the dozen, the emblems of major networks stenciled on their sides. Newscasters and journalists tried to press their way through the line, their mics held out in a desperate bid to pick up an informative byte from the officers that maintained the perimeter.
Murdock knew the situation was going to demand long hours on little sleep, something his body was no longer equipped for at the age of fifty-four.
For almost twenty-five years he had moved up through the ranks with the same aggression he managed in the ring, with tenacity and posturing. He was finally rewarded with a position in the president’s Secret Security detail in 1990, then became the detail’s chief in 2002.
But with responsibility comes accountability. And when one holds the reins of the team he drives, and if the team should stumble gravely in its efforts, then the accusing finger inevitably points back at the driver. In Murdock’s case, he could already sense the political finger pointing in his direction, identifying him as the party responsible for the death of his team and the kidnapping of the pope.
Reaching inside the inner pocket of his overcoat, he grabbed his pack of smokes, withdrew a cigarette, and smoked it slowly, wondering how long it would take for the ax to fall upon his once illustrious career.
CHAPTER NINE
The Situation Room was the nerve center of presidential crisis management. It sat directly below the Oval Office and could seat twenty-four people.
CIA, FBI and Homeland Security dignitaries sat at the table, along with President Burroughs, Vice President Jonas Bohlmer, Chief Presidential Advisor Alan Thornton and Attorney General Dean Hamilton. Normally a room to sequester members of the Pentagon and Joint Chiefs of Staff to determine the potential for war, President Burroughs distinguished the kidnapping of the pope as a non-military issue after a quick briefing with the military principles. The officers remained seated as mere spectators now, as President Burroughs turned his attention to the members of the intelligence community.
With his sleeves rolled to his elbows as if gearing up to engage in blue-collar labor, the president possessed the appearance of someone who was aware of being under a worldwide microscope. Despite the American policy of never negotiating with terrorists, the president could almost feel the Sword of Damocles falling on an international scale if his administration refused to bend to the will of the Soldiers of Islam.
“All right, people,” he said. “Settle down.”
The room fell silent as something indescribably awkward hung in the air. It was something like tension, but thicker and far more palpable. “Last night,” he began, “or this morning, however you want to look at it, I lost four good men to the hands of terrorists. Now can anybody here tell me how a cell could succeed in taking out my people in my backyard without any prior intelligence?” Despite his efforts to remain in control, his tone became angry, menacing, each word louder than the previous. “Anybody?”
Nobody dared to proffer an answer. The assembled dignitaries silently stared at the sheets of paper in front of them.