Election Day: A Harry Cassidy Novel Page 15

  You will note that our selections are not limited to one party, although the majority of our choices to win are Republicans. However, there are many RINOs – Republicans in Name Only – who are as damaging to our nation as the classic liberal, left-wing Democrats. Our single criterion, based on our research, is the candidate’s desire to drive our nation into socialism. Speaking of socialists, the threats from our inept President will not deter our efforts. Do not be cowed by this man. Do not bend to his threats to you or your publisher to not publish this letter. His life may not be in danger, but yours most certainly will.

  Now, for the specifics. Today is June 9, the election is five months away. The people we have marked for defeat must withdraw from their race by September 1, or they will be targeted for death. Should a target candidate not withdraw, and we are unable to kill him or her due to the efforts of law enforcement, we will select a large number of citizens in their election districts for random murder until that candidate withdraws. We would, of course, prefer not to go to these lengths, but I assure you we will if the situation demands it.

  Every citizen of the United States must ask themselves these questions: Am I willing to risk my life, and the lives close to me, by supporting these leftist candidates whose only goal is to destroy our great country? Why should we die for them? Why do the corrupt few control the money, the media and the government and live their luxurious lives with ever-escalating benefits while forcing us to beg for government handouts? Why should we allow our great nation to disappear into irreversible dependency?

  The time for action is now. The second American Revolution is at hand.

  Again, Mr. Baker, we wish to remind you and your publisher of the dire consequences you will personally face if you do not publish this letter exactly as written. The Minutemen.

  The five following pages specifically detailed twenty-one US senate races, one hundred and seventy-two US congressional races, thirteen governor’s races, and forty-nine legislative races in fourteen different states. It was not necessary for Red Baker to count them, as each was specifically numbered – all 255 of them.

  “What do you think, Bill?” Red asked as Brennan finished reading the letter.

  “Get this to Commissioner Carson ASAP, but let’s not go with it on Friday.”

  “What? Are you nuts? You could be signing our death warrants.”

  “Calm down, Red. They don’t know we have this letter. It’s postmarked yesterday. If we wait until next Tuesday’s column, we buy a few days for Nelson and the Feds. Maybe they’ll catch these guys in the interim.”

  “Are you kidding? They have as much chance of catching these guys as I have of playing centerfield for the New York Yankees.”

  “In any case, let’s see the reaction first. I don’t feel right publishing their blueprint for murder.”

  “I’m telling you Bill, if the Sentinel doesn’t, somebody else will – and then these guys will be out to kill us.”

  “Do you want police protection now?”

  “No, but if you decide not to go with this on Friday, I’ll probably need it then.”

  “Doesn’t this bother you? Do you enjoy being the vehicle these maniacs are using to advance their schemes?”

  “I don’t give a shit one way or the other. The story is the only thing I care about, and that’s what you should be caring about too. This is the big one – you know it, and I know it. Don’t get cold feet now. Let’s get it out there. Print another half-million copies on Friday. Let me start to type it right now.”

  “Let’s see the reactions first, and then I’ll decide. Let’s call Carson now.”

  The reaction from Commissioner Carson was, “Holy Mother of Jesus.”

  “Brennan doesn’t want to print this,” Baker said. “What do you think?”

  “I tend to agree with him. This will cause widespread fear and panic, but then you and he become targets number one and two if you don’t go with it.”

  “But my point is, if we don’t print this, I guarantee someone else will.”

  “Let me call Kobak in D.C. I’m sure he’ll want to run this by President Nelson.”

  “Make it quick, Carson. Not only is this the story of the century, I have a fond desire to continue living.”

  * * *

  Walter Kobak sat in the Oval Office at the White House with the President and Vice-President, Richard Manworth. When they finished reading the Minutemen’s letter, President Nelson said, “We cannot let the Sentinel, or anyone else publish this. What do you think, Dick?”

  “I agree,” said the Vice-President, a humorless bulldog of a politician who had presidential aspirations of his own. “These madmen made a big mistake by giving us their list of targets. We’ll cover them with a heavy security blanket, while we hunt these bastards down.”

  “And what say you, Mr. FBI Director?”

  “I also agree. As soon as I leave here I’ll assign agents to all the federal targets and develop a protection plan for each of them. I’ll also coordinate the state targets with the appropriate law enforcement agencies to do likewise. There may be some problems though.”

  “Such as?” asked the Vice-President glaring at Kobak.

  “It’s campaign season. These people have to get out there to make speeches, attend meetings and give interviews. That exposure will make protecting them difficult.”

  “I don’t care how difficult the task is,” President Nelson said. “You will get it done, or I will find a new FBI Director who will get it done. Understood?”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  The President turned to Manworth and said, “Dick, I want you to get the word out through our press secretaries that any media outlet – radio, television, the press, whatever – will face the wrath of the US government, and the wrath of me personally, if they dare to publish this or any future letters from the Minutemen. If they don’t get the message, threaten them with the IRS and FBI.”

  “Will do,” Manworth said, “and I for one will not be cowed. I will increase my personal appearances in support of our candidates. We will have a smashing victory in November.”

  Walt Kobak shook his head as he left the White House. What a pair of pompous jerks! Haven’t they heard of the Internet?

  * * *

  Red Baker was furious when Bill Brennan informed him of the President’s request not to publish the letter. “Does that asshole really think he can stop this from getting out? He must be living in a cave. Fuck him, Bill. Let’s do it anyway.”

  “No, I won’t do it. We owe them this delay. They’ll catch these guys soon.”

  “Are you kidding? These FBI jerks don’t even have a clue. You could sell a million copies for Christ’s sake!”

  “Let’s see what happens, but my decision is final.”

  “Is your will up-to-date, I hope?”

  “Look, the Minutemen don’t know we received their letter. When we don’t publish it on Friday, that’s what they’ll think.”

  “And what about next Tuesday? How long do you think you can put them off before they blow our asses up?

  “Call Commissioner Carson and see if they have any leads on these guys yet.”

  “Why should I believe him? He’ll give us the standard cop bullshit – we are actively pursuing the investigation – or some similar claptrap.”

  “Call him, Red. Now.”

  Red put Charlie Carson on the speakerphone who, to Baker’s surprise, frankly admitted that no one in law enforcement – federal, state and local – had anything to go on. No leads, no clues, no tips. He then said, “So, I assume you two will want immediate police protection?”

  “Not yet,” Brennan said. “We have some time.”

  “You okay with that too, Red?”

  “Yeah, but I’m not okay with not going with the biggest story of my long career. I don’t have too many years left, you know.”

  Red went back to his office and put the finishing touches on his Friday’s column, concluding with the words: So we sit
and wait for the next communication from the Minutemen and we will report it to you immediately when it arrives.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Jonathan Tuttle, a financial supporter and member of the Minutemen who had attended both of their meetings, was an early riser. On Friday at 6:30 a.m., he sipped his coffee at the café across the street from his Manhattan apartment building on 56th Street and opened the Sentinel to Red Baker’s column. He scanned it quickly with increasing disappointment. Was Baker being truthful? He gulped down the rest of his coffee, left money on the counter and stepped outside. He withdrew his cell phone and dialed a number. When his Committee contact, Dennis Nolan, answered he said, “Sorry to bother you at this early hour, but it did not appear as planned.”

  “Fax the column to me immediately and I’ll call you back.”

  Jonathan rushed back to his apartment and did as instructed. In a few minutes, a copy of the letter was faxed back to him with a cover sheet of instructions. On that sheet was a hand-written comment, Thanks, Jon. When you take care of this, let me know. Dennis.

  At ten o’clock that morning, a disheveled man looking as if he had just awakened from a troubled night’s sleep in a dirty doorway, shambled up to the visitor’s desk at the Sentinel and gave an envelope to the security officer on duty. The officer, recoiling slightly from the odor of stale urine emanating from the man, read the typewritten words on the front of the envelope – Please deliver immediately to Mr. Red Baker – Personal and Confidential.

  The security officer, a retired member of the NYMPD said, “Who gave you this, sir?”

  “I don’t know. Some guy in a nice suit and tie.”

  “And he asked you to bring this in here?”

  “Yup, and there was a fifty dollar bill for my other hand.”

  “Can you give me a description of the man?”

  “Like I said, a suit and tie. White guy. Hadda be rich, right? I gotta go. Got a date with the liquor store. Adios.”

  As the man walked away from the desk, the security officer dialed Red’s office and his secretary said, “I’ll send an office boy down right away.”

  After noting the homeless man exit the front door of the building, Jonathan Tuttle hailed a cab back to his apartment and called Dennis Nolan saying only, “Mission accomplished.” Dennis turned to the members of the Committee and said, “It’s taken care of.”

  “Good,” O’Grady said. “Let’s put our contingency plan into operation right now.”

  * * *

  The typewritten note attached to the copy of the letter said – Hello Mr. Baker. We are sorry that you did not receive our letter in time for today’s edition, so we thought we would hand- deliver a copy to you. We know you will publish it in your Tuesday column, all six pages of it, and you are smart enough to know if you don’t, someone else surely will. The Minutemen.

  “What now, my fearless leader?” Red asked as Bill Brennan finished reading the note.

  “Let’s see what happens over the weekend. Prepare your Tuesday column in two versions – one including their letter, and one without it. I’ll make the decision on Monday.”

  “And what am I going to say in my column if you decide not to run it? Shall I say, fuck you Minutemen, we ain’t doing your bidding anymore?”

  “Something like that Red,” Brennan said with a smile. “You’re the Pulitzer Prize winner with the way with words. You figure it out.”

  “Bill, we report the news. That’s our job. And we have big news here. Let the chips fall where they may.”

  “I really don’t want to be the vehicle for their extortion plans and the President agrees with me, but wait until Monday for my final decision.”

  * * *

  Bill Brennan agonized over the next few days hoping that the cops would catch the Minutemen or someone else would publish or broadcast the contents of their third letter before he had to make his decision. But the cops caught no one, and the contents of the letter remained hidden in his hands. Decision time was now upon him and he could wait no longer. He picked up his phone and told Red Baker to bring him the second version of his column – the version stating that the Sentinel would not publish the letter. Baker was there in two minutes and handed Brennan two sheets of paper.

  Dear Readers,

  The publisher of the Sentinel has decided to no longer publish any further communications from the Minutemen. Bill Brennan, my long time friend, has explained his reasons to me for this decision, and while I do not agree with them, I will respect them.

  Accordingly, since I can no longer do my job – reporting and commenting on the biggest stories in the news – I have tendered my resignation to Mr. Brennan. This will be my last column for the Sentinel and the other syndicated newspapers in which I regularly appear. Farewell my loyal readers and the best of luck, health and happiness to you in these troubled times.

  Sincerely, Joseph “Red” Baker.

  Bill Brennan slid the second sheet of paper out from under the first and read,

  Dear Mr. Brennan, I hereby tend my resignation effective today, Monday June 14, at 5:00 p.m. Respectfully, Joseph Baker.

  “Are you sure about this, Red?”

  “Positive, and I don’t have to explain why. You already know.”

  “Okay, I’ll work up a decent severance package for you. You deserve it – you brought a lot of readers to this paper.”

  “Thanks Bill, I’ll go clean out my desk. And you better think about some police protection for yourself – soon.”

  * * *

  Jonathan Tuttle was awake very early on Tuesday morning, so early in fact that he arrived at the all-night coffee shop before the morning papers were delivered. He was on his second cup when the truck arrived and the bundles hit the sidewalk. As soon as the coffee shop worker cut the string on the first stack, Jonathan grabbed the top copy, paid his bill, and left. Calling from under a street light as the sky began to lighten over the buildings, he read Baker’s column to Dennis Nolan. When he finished Dennis said, “Well, it looks as if old Red just escaped a death sentence. Thank you my friend, we’ll take it from here.”

  The next call Dennis made was to the four Minutemen who had been dispatched to the New York area a few days prior. His instructions to the leader of the group were brief – “It’s a go on Brennan, and a no-go on Baker. Got it?”

  “Got it. Should we retrieve the devices from Baker’s apartment?”

  “Too risky. Let the cops find them. That will reinforce our determination.”

  Two of the four minutemen were parked within a half-mile of Brennan’s Eastside apartment building, and the other two within the same distance of Baker’s apartment in the Village. The leader, who was by Brennan’s place, called the other team via cell phone and directed them to stand down and await his next call. He then withdrew a small radio transmitter from the glove compartment and flicked a switch on it causing a red light to come on. He looked at his watch. It was 6:35 a.m., twenty-five minutes before the divorced, lone occupant of the apartment would reach over to turn off his alarm clock as he did every workday morning.

  A green light appeared next to the red light which then went out. The transmitter was powered up. The leader pushed a black button. The green light went out. The signal had been sent. They knew they would not hear the explosion from their location, but waited several minutes, listening for the screams of sirens and horns headed toward the scene. Finally, the two men heard those confirming sounds they had been waiting for and a minute later myriad emergency vehicles from the police and fire departments raced by them. They started up the car and the leader called the other team to meet them by the Holland Tunnel. They had other business to attend to before flying home to God’s country.

  * * *

  Commissioner Charlie Carson’s home phone rang at five minutes to seven, just as he was about to rub shaving cream on his morning stubble. The overnight duty officer told him what had happened at Bill Brennan’s apartment. Carson immediately went into action, “Captain, get t
he Bomb Squad on its way to Red Baker’s apartment – it’s somewhere in the Village. Call the Sentinel for the address if we don’t have it in the files. Then get the chief of detectives to get a couple of his guys over to Baker’s and roust him out of his place immediately.”

  Charlie’s wife, Cindy, had heard the conversation and asked her husband what happened. After he told her he said, “Do me a favor, hon. Throw something on and run down and get me a copy of the Sentinel. I have to finish shaving and get into the office. I’ll skip breakfast and get something there.”

  When Cindy got back with the paper, Charlie was just knotting his tie. He said, “Find Red Baker’s column and read it to me please.”

  “Oh, my God!” he said when his wife was finished. “This is my fault. I should have given Brennan protection well before this happened.”

  “Did he request it?”

  “No, he said he would think about it and let me know.”

  “Did he tell you he was not going to publish the letter?”

  “No, but that shouldn’t have mattered…..”

  “Then you can’t beat yourself up about it,” she said putting her arms around him, “Go to work and keep busy. Worry about this later. And at least it seems they didn’t kill Red Baker, too.”

  “I hope not. It looks like his resignation may have saved him from the same fate.”

  By the time Charlie Carson arrived at his office in One Police Plaza, two detectives had successfully rousted Red Baker from his hung-over sleep having almost to break down his door to do so. Having spent most of the previous night, and well into the early morning hours drinking away his sorrows over his decision to quit his job, his head now throbbing in stabs of pain, he pulled open his door in a rage yelling, “What the fuck….?”