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Authors: Mike Lawson
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if he voted at all.” Engles frowned. “Why are you asking about Mattis’s politics? You people think he actually had something to do with the shooting?”
Yikes. “Of course not,” DeMarco said.
“I sure as hell hope not. That boy would no more be involved in something like that than Ol’ Bullet here would turn himself into a cat. Ain’t that right, Bullet,” Engles said, tugging on the dog’s collar.
DeMarco thought he saw Ol’ Bullet smile but the dog may have been choking.
DeMarco schmoozed around with Frank Engles another fifteen minutes trying to get him to remember nasty things about Billy Mattis. Nada. Billy Ray was the Muffin Man, Mr. Goodwrench, sugar and spice and everything nice. And he probably was.
As DeMarco was driving back to Washington, picking dog hairs off his trousers, his cell phone rang. It was Banks.
“Be in my office at one,” Banks said. “The FBI has something new on the assassination attempt and they’re sending someone over to brief me.”
10
The FBI briefing consisted of a single agent equipped with a spiral-bound notebook, and DeMarco could see that Banks was disappointed. The retired general had obviously been expecting a Pentagon PowerPoint with multicolored charts showing maps, shooting angles, and enlarged copies of lab reports.
The agent, one Gregory Prudom, was a man of medium height with regular features. His hair was short and brown. His blue suit, white shirt, and red-and-gold striped tie were bureaucratic camouflage. He was so nondescript that his own mother couldn’t have picked him out of a lineup. At the same time, he had the air of a man who would hold the line if commanded, never giving an inch until directed to retreat. A titanium cookie cutter down at Quantico stamped out men like Agent Prudom.
Prudom started the briefing by glancing at DeMarco and saying, “General Banks, I was told to extend to you the courtesy of a progress report but I was of the understanding you would be alone. May I ask who this gentleman is?”
“Courtesy, my eye,” Banks said. “I run Homeland Security. I have a need to know.”
“You do, sir, but does this gentleman?”
“Yeah. He’s one of my assistants.”
Turning to DeMarco, Prudom said, “May I see some identification, sir?” DeMarco smiled at Prudom but didn’t reach for his wallet. This son of a bitch didn’t look like anybody’s assistant, Prudom was thinking; he looked like guys he’d brought up on racketeering charges.
“You don’t need to see his ID, Mr. Prudom,” Banks said. “You’ll take my word that he’s properly cleared and with a need to know. Now get on with it.”
Prudom sat a second pondering his options, looking Banks directly in the eye. He wasn’t intimidated; he was just trying to figure out if bucking Banks was in the Bureau’s best interest.
“Yes, sir,” he said at last, and opened his notebook. He flipped to a page with a few notes scribbled on it and said, “We finally figured out how Edwards pulled it off.”
“That’s great,” Banks said, but DeMarco thought he looked nervous.
“The day the President was shot,” Prudom said, “the agents never saw the shooter; they weren’t even sure where he fired from.”
“Then what the hell were they shooting at?” Banks asked.
“The bluff above the river,” Prudom said. “It was the only place that provided any cover so they saturated it with bullets in an attempt to keep the shooter from firing again. They were unsuccessful, as you know, because the shooter fired a third shot after the agents opened fire, killing Agent James, the agent who was lying on top of the President.
“After the third shot, the shooting stopped but no one could get up to the bluff right away to go after the assassin. The remaining Secret Service agents had to get the President into the helicopter so he could be evacuated to the nearest hospital, and two of the three agents accompanied the President in the helicopter. The third agent
Yikes. “Of course not,” DeMarco said.
“I sure as hell hope not. That boy would no more be involved in something like that than Ol’ Bullet here would turn himself into a cat. Ain’t that right, Bullet,” Engles said, tugging on the dog’s collar.
DeMarco thought he saw Ol’ Bullet smile but the dog may have been choking.
DeMarco schmoozed around with Frank Engles another fifteen minutes trying to get him to remember nasty things about Billy Mattis. Nada. Billy Ray was the Muffin Man, Mr. Goodwrench, sugar and spice and everything nice. And he probably was.
As DeMarco was driving back to Washington, picking dog hairs off his trousers, his cell phone rang. It was Banks.
“Be in my office at one,” Banks said. “The FBI has something new on the assassination attempt and they’re sending someone over to brief me.”
10
The FBI briefing consisted of a single agent equipped with a spiral-bound notebook, and DeMarco could see that Banks was disappointed. The retired general had obviously been expecting a Pentagon PowerPoint with multicolored charts showing maps, shooting angles, and enlarged copies of lab reports.
The agent, one Gregory Prudom, was a man of medium height with regular features. His hair was short and brown. His blue suit, white shirt, and red-and-gold striped tie were bureaucratic camouflage. He was so nondescript that his own mother couldn’t have picked him out of a lineup. At the same time, he had the air of a man who would hold the line if commanded, never giving an inch until directed to retreat. A titanium cookie cutter down at Quantico stamped out men like Agent Prudom.
Prudom started the briefing by glancing at DeMarco and saying, “General Banks, I was told to extend to you the courtesy of a progress report but I was of the understanding you would be alone. May I ask who this gentleman is?”
“Courtesy, my eye,” Banks said. “I run Homeland Security. I have a need to know.”
“You do, sir, but does this gentleman?”
“Yeah. He’s one of my assistants.”
Turning to DeMarco, Prudom said, “May I see some identification, sir?” DeMarco smiled at Prudom but didn’t reach for his wallet. This son of a bitch didn’t look like anybody’s assistant, Prudom was thinking; he looked like guys he’d brought up on racketeering charges.
“You don’t need to see his ID, Mr. Prudom,” Banks said. “You’ll take my word that he’s properly cleared and with a need to know. Now get on with it.”
Prudom sat a second pondering his options, looking Banks directly in the eye. He wasn’t intimidated; he was just trying to figure out if bucking Banks was in the Bureau’s best interest.
“Yes, sir,” he said at last, and opened his notebook. He flipped to a page with a few notes scribbled on it and said, “We finally figured out how Edwards pulled it off.”
“That’s great,” Banks said, but DeMarco thought he looked nervous.
“The day the President was shot,” Prudom said, “the agents never saw the shooter; they weren’t even sure where he fired from.”
“Then what the hell were they shooting at?” Banks asked.
“The bluff above the river,” Prudom said. “It was the only place that provided any cover so they saturated it with bullets in an attempt to keep the shooter from firing again. They were unsuccessful, as you know, because the shooter fired a third shot after the agents opened fire, killing Agent James, the agent who was lying on top of the President.
“After the third shot, the shooting stopped but no one could get up to the bluff right away to go after the assassin. The remaining Secret Service agents had to get the President into the helicopter so he could be evacuated to the nearest hospital, and two of the three agents accompanied the President in the helicopter. The third agent
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