Murder in Foggy Bottom - Margaret Truman [96]
“Tony, I understand what you’re saying, and I do appreciate the decision the president has to make. But two sources, Tony, no matter how sullied they might be— isn’t that reason enough to hold off for a time to get to the truth? What if these so-called tainted sources are right, and the FBI is wrong, and troops go in and kill Jasper and some of his people, including women and children? And do you know the political ramifications that will have for the administration?”
“Sure, I do. I also know that taking swift, decisive action will put to rest all the rumors and speculation about foreign powers being behind the missile attacks. Those missiles are throwing this nation into panic, Lisa, panic and terror and maybe chaos. All the terrorist attacks are coming to a head in this one episode.”
Rock’s sigh was loud enough for Cammanati to hear over the phone.
“I’ll talk to the president again, Lisa. That’s all I can promise.”
“And I appreciate it, Tony. Please let me know what he says.”
“I will. Glad to have you back.”
She slowly replaced the phone into its cradle, lowered her head, and closed her eyes. A wave of fatigue had suddenly overwhelmed her, as though the reserve energy tank on which she’d been running had been ruptured. But the television caused her head to snap up and her eyes to open wide. It started with a single report, loud, amplified by microphones picking up the sound, every sound. Then, multiple gunshots, rifles.
“They’re shooting at the troops,” Hoctor said from the other side of the door. “They’re going to make a fight out of it.”
The sound of a bigger weapon firing erupted like a volcano from the TV inside Rock’s office, something heavy and lethal. She watched as the tanks rolled up to the main gate of the ranch and stopped.
“Tear gas,” Rock muttered. “Where’s the tear gas?”
There was a lull in the sound. In the background, smoke spiraled up from a corner of the main house where the shell had hit. Two armed men who’d been near the gate suddenly turned and ran toward the house. A barrage of small-weapons fire crackled from the television speakers; one of the men could be seen falling to the ground; the other disappeared near the house.
“Good God,” Rock muttered as a reporter began describing the assault over a cacophony of guns being fired. Helicopters came in low over the compound, spraying it with machine-gun fire. Distorted commands through powered bullhorns added to the reporter’s audio scrim.
Wide-eyed witnesses on the other side of the door looked on with disbelief and morbid fascination: Pauling, Hoctor, McQuaid, and members of the Secretary’s staff.
Pauling walked slowly through the reception area, the broadcast sounds of the carnage in Blaine, Washington, fading behind him. He considered for a moment going to his office, or to the press room to watch other accounts of the action. Instead, he left the building, crossed Twenty-third Street to the Columbia Plaza apartment complex in which Jessica Mumford lived, sat at an outdoor table under an umbrella, and watched people come and go from the apartment building and the small shops strung along one side of the large, open space. A twin-engine commuter plane flew low over the courtyard on takeoff from National, and Pauling thought of his Cessna parked at the airport, ready to go, to take him away to anywhere except Washington, DC.
But a heavy reality set in. They’d be looking for him back at State. Heavy-legged, he retraced his steps.
As he did, FBI Director Russell Templeton concluded his conversation with the president of the United States and swiveled in his chair to face the dozen men in his office.
“The president,” he said, “has assured me he has