“WE CAN ALL remember when people ran for reelection to Congress, and one of the things they told us was, ‘Vote for me, because for every dollar that taxes take from this district, a dollar-twenty comes back.’ Do you remember those claims?” the President asked.
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“What they didn’t say was–well, it was actually a lot of things. Number one, who ever said that you depend on the government for money? We don’t vote for Santa Claus, do we? It’s the other way around. The government can’t exist unless you give // money.
“Number two, are they telling you, ‘Vote for me, ’cause I really stick it to those rotten people in North Dakota’? Aren’t they Americans, too?
“Number three, the real reason this happens is that the government deficit means every district gets more in federal payments than it lost in federal taxes–excuse me, I mean direct federal taxes. The ones you can see.
“So they were bragging to you that they were spending more money than they had. If your next-door neighbor told you he was kiting checks drafted on your personal bank, you think maybe you might call the police about it?
“We all know that the government does take more than it gives back. They’ve just learned to hide it. The federal budget deficit means that every time you borrow money, it costs more than it should–why? Because the government borrows so much money that it drives up interest rates.
“And so, ladies and gentlemen, every house payment, every car payment, every credit-card bill is also a tax. And maybe they give you a tax break on interest payments. Isn’t that nice?” POTUS asked. “Your government gives you a tax break on money you ought not to have to pay in the first place, and then it tells you that you get back more than you pay out.” Ryan paused.
“Does anybody out there really believe that? Does anybody really believe it when people say that the United States can’t afford–not to spend more money than it has? Are these the words of Adam Smith or Lucy Ricardo? I have a degree in economics, and / Love Lucy wasn’t on the course.
“Ladies and gentlemen. I am not a politician, and I am not here to speak on behalf of any of your local candidates for the vacant seats in the People’s House. I am here to ask you to think. You, too, have a duty. The government belongs to you. You don’t belong to it. When you go out to vote tomorrow, please take the time to think about what
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the candidates say and what they stand for. Ask yourself, ‘Does this make sense?’ and then make the best choice you can–and if you don’t like any of them, go to the polls anyway, go into the voting booth, and then go home without giving your vote to anyone, but at least show up. You owe that to your country.”
THE HEATING AND air-conditioning van pulled up the driveway, and a pair of men got out and walked up to the porch. One of them knocked.
“Yes?” the lady of the house asked in puzzlement.
“FBI, Mrs. Sminton.” He showed his credentials. “Could we come in, please?”
“Why?” the sixty-two-year-old widow asked.
“We’d like you to help us with something, if you might.” It had taken longer than expected. The guns used in the SANDBOX case had been traced to a manufacturer, from the manufacturer to a wholesaler, from the wholesaler to a dealer, and from the dealer to a name, and from a name to an address. With the address, the Bureau and Secret Service had gone to a United States District Court judge for a search-and-seizure warrant.
“Please come in.”
“Thank you. Mrs. Sminton, do you know the gentleman who lives next door?”
“Mr. Azir, you mean?”
“That’s right.”
“Not very well. Sometimes I wave.”
“Do you know if he’s home now?”
“His car’s not there,” she replied, after looking. The agents already knew that. He owned a blue Oldsmobile wagon with Maryland tags. Every cop in two hundred miles was looking for it.
“Do you know when the last time was you saw him?”
“Friday, I guess. There were some other cars there, and a truck.”
“Okay.” The agent reached in his coveralls pocket and pulled out a radio. “Move in, move in. Bird is probably– say again, probably–out of the coop.”
Before the widow’s astonished eyes, a helicopter ap-
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peared directly over the house three hundred yards away. Zip lines dropped from both sides, and armed agents slid down them. At the same time, four vehicles converged from both directions on the country road, all of them driving off the road, onto the wide lawn straight toward the dwelling. Ordinarily, things would have gone slower, with some period of discreet surveillance, but the word was out on this one. Front and back doors were kicked in–and thirty seconds later, a siren went off. Mr. Azir, it seemed, had a burglar alarm. Then the radio crackled.
“Clear, building is clear. This is Betz. Search complete, building is clear. Bring in the lab troops.” With that, two vans appeared. These proceeded up the driveway, and one of the first things the passengers did was to take samples of the gravel there, plus grass, to match with scrapings from the rented cars left at Giant Steps.
“Mrs. Sminton, could we sit down, please? There are a couple questions we’d like to ask you about Mr. Azir.”
“SO?” MURRAY ASKED, arriving in the FBI Command Center.
“No joy,” the agent at the console said.
“Damn.” It wasn’t said with passion. He’d never really expected it. But he expected some important information anyway. The Lab had collected all manner of physical evidence. Gravel samples could match the driveway. Grass and dirt found on the inside offenders and bumpers could link the vehicles to the Azir house. Carpet fibers–maroon wool–on the shoes of the dead terrorists could put them inside the house. Even now, a team of ten agents was beginning the process of discovering exactly who “Morde-cai Azir” was. Smart money was that he was about as Jewish as Adolf Eichmann. Nobody was covering that wager.
“Commander Center, this is Betz.” Billy Betz was assistant special agent in charge of the Baltimore Field Division, and a former HRT shooter, hence his dramatic descent from the helicopter, leading his men . . . and a woman.
“Billy, this is Dan Murray. What do you have?”
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“Would you believe it? A half-empty crate of seven-six-two ball ammo, and the lot numbers match, Director. Living room has a dark red wool rug. This is our place. Some clothes missing from the master-bedroom closet. I’d say nobody’s been here for a couple of days. Location is secure. No booby traps. The lab troops are starting their routine.” And all eighty minutes from the time the Baltimore SAC had walked into the Garmatz Federal Courthouse. Not fast enough, but fast.
The forensics experts were a mix of Bureau, Service, and the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms, a troubled agency whose technical staff was nonetheless excellent. They’d all be shaking the house for hours. Everyone wore gloves. Every surface would be dusted for fingerprints to match with those of the dead terrorists.
“SOME WEEKS AGO you saw me take an oath to preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States. That’s the second time I did that. The first time was as a brand-new Marine second lieutenant, when I graduated from Boston College. Right after that, I read the Constitution, to make sure I knew what it was that I was supposed to be defending.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we often hear politicians saying how they want government to empower you, so that you can do things.
“That’s not the way it is,” Ryan told them forcefully. “Thomas Jefferson wrote that governments derive their just powers from the consent of the governed. That’s you. The Constitution is something you should all read. The Constitution of the United States was not written to tell you what to do. The Constitution establishes the relationship among the three branches of government. It tells the government what it may do, and it also tells the government what it may not do. The government may not restrict your speech. The government may not tell you how to pray. The government may not do a lot of things. Government is a lot better at taking things away than it is at giving, but most of all, the government does not empower
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you. You empower the government. Ours is a government of the people. You are not people who belong to the government.
“Tomorrow you will not be electing masters, you will be choosing employees, servants of your will, guardians of your rights. We do not tell you what to do. You tell us what to do.
“It is not my job to take your money and give it back. It is my job to take what money I must have to protect and serve you–and to do that job as efficiently as possible. Government service may be an important duty, and a great responsibility, but it is not supposed to be a blessing for those who serve. It is your government servants who are supposed to sacrifice for you, not you who sacrifice for them.