My informant stepped out of the shadows of the underground garage to which he had summoned me.
“It’s a plot,” he growled ominously. “A plot against Cheney.”
“What do you mean, plot?” I asked, skeptically.
“It was no ‘accident’ that Whittington was in his line of fire. It was an order.”
“An order? An order from whom?”
He snorted in disgust. “Don’t be stupid. Follow the birdshot. Who stands to gain the most if Mr. Richard Bruce Cheney is brought down?”
I thought for a moment, and then it dawned on me. “You mean G..." He put a finger to my lips before I could speak the name, and nodded.
“That’s right. He’s been waiting for five years to take over as President, and now it looks like he’ll finally get his chance.”