Term Limits (29 page)

“Hold on, back up a minute. Don't you usually check your voice mail more than once a day?”

“On a normal day, yes, but I was a little busy today.”

Garret pointed his finger at McMahon and raising his voice said, “The next time you get something this important, you let us know immediately! There is absolutely no excuse other than incompetency for not informing us of this recording as soon as you found it!”

McMahon was enjoying himself too much to let what Garret was saying upset him. Leaning back in his chair, McMahon folded his arms and smiled.

Jack Warch, who was sitting next to Garret, leaned forward and caught the chief of staff's eye. Warch gave Garret a hard stare. The message was clear. Garret looked down at his notepad and mumbled something to himself.

No one spoke for a while, and then a nervous President Stevens attempted to speak. The words didn't come out right the first time, so he started over. “Could they have shot down Marine One today?”

Without pausing for a second, Warch answered, “Yes.”

In the most polite tone he could muster, Garret cleared his throat and said, “Jack, let's not be so presumptuous. We shouldn't jump to any conclusions
until we get more information.” Garret didn't like anyone getting the president frazzled unless it was him.

Warch shrugged his shoulders and said, “I am basing my opinion on nothing more than the facts. These assassins have shown an incredible propensity to plan ahead. They not only discovered which helicopter the president was on, but they forced Marine One and her escorts to fly a course they were not supposed to. I spoke with the pilots, and they said there is no doubt in their minds that Marine One could have been blown out of the sky this afternoon.”

The president closed his eyes and shook his head. Several seconds later he looked at Warch and asked, “Can you protect me or not?”

“If you continue to ignore my advice, no.”

“What do you mean ignore your advice?” asked the president in a pleading tone. He looked to Warch's boss this time for an answer, but didn't get one.

Warch had convinced his boss to stay out of it and let him put the fear of God into the president. Warch leaned forward and got the president's attention. “Sir, when you and Mr. Garret informed me that you wanted to hold your budget summit at Camp David, I told you it was a bad idea and that it should be held at the White House. Because you ignored that advice, you were almost killed today.” Warch paused briefly, his voice taking on a more authoritative tone. “Special Agent Dorle told Speaker Basset that he should cancel all public appearances. The Speaker ignored his advice and
now he's dead.… I have been telling you for two and a half years that security around the White House is lax, that the press is given too much freedom to come and go as they please. Well, it all came home to roost today. I found out how the assassins knew which helicopter you were on.”

Warch again paused and looked at the president, letting the tension mount. He was going to play this hand for everything it was worth. “My agents tore apart everything that was within sight of the South Lawn. One of them found a transponder attached to the live-signal feed underneath the control panel of the ABC News van. While arranging security for this trip, I suggested that the media be banned from the South Lawn while the helicopters were coming and going. I thought this precaution was appropriate considering the fact that four politicians have been assassinated in the last week. This request was ignored because it was deemed too important of a news event to have a media blackout, so the media was allowed to tape the entire event. Several members of your staff even wanted to let the media carry the event live. I told them that was out of the question, and we reached a compromise that allowed the media to tape your departure and then show it later.

“Just before the first helicopter landed, my agents shut down the live feeds on all the news vans and made them go to tape. At some point after that, the assassins activated a transponder that they'd planted underneath the ABC News van's control board. Once this was turned on, they were able to watch everything that happened on the South
Lawn in real time. These assassins know where our weaknesses are, and they know that our ability to protect you is directly related to your desire to be protected. They obviously understand the relationship between a politician and the media, and if you continue to make yourself accessible to the media and the public, we will not be able to protect you.”

The president looked at his chief protector and said, “Jack, do whatever you need to make things more secure, and I'll listen to you.”

Roach, noticing that the president was in an unusually decisive and agreeable mood, decided to make his move. “Mr. President, our investigation has hit a wall. We believe these assassins are former United States commandos. Special Agent McMahon and his people have received very little cooperation from the Special Forces people at the Pentagon. They are stonewalling us at every turn.”

The president's head jerked from Roach to Nance. “Mike, what's the problem?”

“Well, sir, there are certain national security issues involved here. Most of these personnel files are either top secret or contain top secret information about covert missions.”

The president cut Nance off for the first time in their professional relationship. “I don't want to hear about problems. I want to see some results.” Stevens turned his head away from Nance and back to Roach. “I will have an executive order ready by tomorrow morning giving Special Agent McMahon permission to review any personnel file he wishes. We are done dragging our feet on this. I want these people caught!”

Nance looked at the president from the other end of the table and bit his lip. Stevens was too emotional right now, he would have to wait until later to discuss this issue. There was no way in the world someone without top secret clearance was going to get carte blanche on those files. Especially someone from the FBI.

While Nance tried to think of a way around this new problem, Warch briefed the participants on the evidence they'd found under the bridge—such as the radar dishes, and what efforts were being made to track the serial numbers. As the briefing continued, it dawned on Nance that Garret was unusually quiet. Nance attributed it to the threat the assassins had made on his life. Nance's mind moved from Garret to Stansfield. Why was Director Stansfield so quiet during the discussion of Special Forces personnel files? Surely it was in the CIA's best interest to keep those files away from the eyes of the FBI.

The meeting ended just after 8 P.M., and everyone left the conference room except Garret and Nance. When the door closed, Garret dropped his head into his hands and rubbed his eyes. “What a fucking mess.”

Nance shifted in his chair and crossed his legs. He watched Garret and tried to guess what he was thinking. Nance tilted his head back and asked, “Stu, you were awfully quiet during the briefing. Did that tape get to you?”

Garret let his hands fall to the table and looked up with bloodshot eyes. “No… maybe a little… I don't know.” Garret reached into his shirt pocket. “God, I need a cigarette.” He shoved one in his
mouth and lit it. After taking a deep drag he said, “They can't kill me if I don't give them the chance. I won't leave the White House for a month. I'll take one of the guest bedrooms and move in.” Garret took several more deep drags and frowned. “I'm not scared of these terrorists. I'm worried about something else. We've got another problem, and it's not good. Warch knows about the job we did on Frank Moore. He told me he knows who was involved, and if I don't back off and listen to him, he'll tell the FBI.” Garret stood up and started pacing. “When it rains, it pours. It's not like we don't already have enough problems, and now we've got this to deal with.”

Nance watched Garret intently and kept his outward composure. “Did he mention my name?”

Without looking at Nance, Garret paused and said, “Yes.”

“Did he mention any other names?”

“Yes.”

“Whose?”

Garret looked at Nance briefly and then looked at a painting on the wall. “He mentioned Arthur's.”

Nance felt a sharp pain shoot through his temples. “He mentioned Arthur?”

Garret reluctantly nodded his head. “I have no idea how he found out. I didn't talk to anyone about it.”

Nance's demeanor remained placid, but inside he was boiling. Without having to think very hard he knew exactly how Warch had found out. He or one of his people must have overheard Stu talking to God-knows-who about their little blackmail operation.

“Arthur will not be happy about this. I'm sure he will want to talk to you at length. Clear your schedule for tomorrow evening. He wants to talk to us about something else, and it can't wait. I'll arrange for some discreet transportation.”

THE MOON WAS SHOWING ONLY A SLIVER OF white as it sat suspended above the tall pines. The four-door Crown Victoria approached the main gate of Camp David, and the two occupants in the backseat ducked down. The electric gate slid open, and the sedan accelerated past a mob of reporters kept at bay by a squad of Marines with M16s cradled across their chests.

The pack of reporters and cameramen pushed each other to try and get a glimpse of who was in the car. The sedan continued down the road and around the first turn, where it slowed. Two identical Crown Victorias pulled off the shoulder and took up positions in front of and behind the car carrying the national security adviser and the president's chief of staff.

Saturday's budget summit at Camp David had been a mixed success. Garret had come up with some accounting gimmicks that would make the budget deficit look smaller than it really was. This would enable the political leadership to say they had cut some spending, without actually making the tough choices. Their hope was that it would pacify the assassins and give the FBI some time to catch the killers.

Mike Nance's doubts regarding the stability of the new coalition were already proving true. Senator Olson had balked on the deal, telling the president he would have no part in misleading the American people. Olson argued that real cuts had to be made, or he was out. The silver-haired senator from Minnesota told the president he would stay quiet for one week, and if Garret was still playing his accounting games, he would expose the new budget cuts for what they were—a sham.

Nance and Garret spent most of the fifty-minute drive talking in hushed whispers. The Maryland country roads they traveled on were dark, and traffic was light. When they reached Arthur's estate, the lead and trailing sedans pulled off to the side, and the one carrying Nance and Garret approached the large wrought-iron gate. Two powerful floodlights illuminated the entrance to the estate. A large man dressed in a tactical jumpsuit and carrying an Uzi stepped out of the guardhouse and approached the sedan. A flashlight was taped to the underside of the machine gun's barrel, and the guard turned it on. He pointed it toward the back window and shone the light on Nance and Garret. After identifying
both men, he told the driver to pop the trunk. Walking to the rear of the car, he checked the trunk and then walked back to the guardhouse.

Arthur was sitting behind the desk in his study watching the scene at the front gate. Embedded in the wall to the left of his desk were four security monitors and two large color TVs. Arthur watched the guard go back into the small booth, and a moment later the gate opened. The gate closed as soon as the car passed through. Looking at another monitor, Arthur watched the car snake its way up the drive and stop in front of the house, where it was met by two more guards, one of whom had a German shepherd at his side. Garret and Nance stepped out of the car and stood still while the dog sniffed them and a handheld metal detector was waved over their bodies. Finally, the door was opened from the inside, and a third guard led them down the hall to Arthur's study.

Arthur pressed a button on the underside of his desk, and an old framed map of the world slid down and covered the monitors. Rising from behind the desk, he walked over to the fireplace and placed one hand on the mantel. Even though Arthur was over seventy, he still had a rigid and upright frame. His silver hair was neatly combed straight back and stopped an inch above the white collar of his dress shirt. His fingernails were well manicured, and his expensive, worsted-wool suit hung perfectly from his slender frame.

The door opened and Nance and Garret entered. Arthur kept his arm on the mantel and waited for
his guests to approach. Mike Nance stopped about ten feet away and in a formal tone said, “Stu Garret, I would like to introduce you to Arthur.”

Garret stepped forward and extended his damp, clammy hand. “It's great to finally meet you. I've been looking forward to this for a while.”

Arthur nodded his head slightly. “The pleasure is all mine.” Then, motioning toward several chairs, he said, “Please, let's sit. Would either of you like anything?”

Nance eased his way over to Arthur's side. “Before we get started, I would like to go over a couple of things with you in private.”

Arthur grasped the point and turned to his other guest. “Mr. Garret, do you like to smoke cigars?”

Garret was caught off guard for a moment. “Ah… ah… yes, I do.”

Walking over to the coffee table, Arthur picked up a cherrywood humidor and lifted the lid. Garret grabbed one of the cigars and smelled it. Arthur handed him a cigar guillotine, and Garret snipped off the end. “I'll show you to the door.” Arthur led Garret across the room toward a pair of French doors. “The view of the Chesapeake is beautiful from the veranda. I think you will enjoy it.” Arthur opened one of the doors. “We'll be out to join you in a minute.” Closing the door behind his guest, Arthur turned and walked back to Nance. “What is the problem?”

“It seems that our involvement in the blackmailing of Congressman Moore is known by someone outside the original group.”