Term Limits (30 page)

“And who would that be?”

“Jack Warch, he's the special agent in—”

“I know who he is. How did he find out?”

Nance glanced toward the veranda and then told Arthur about the confrontation between Garret and Warch. When he was done, Arthur asked, “And how do you think Mr. Warch found out?”

“I think that Mr. Garret wasn't as careful as he should have been.”

“I would concur.”

Arthur was not an animated person, but Nance had expected him to display some type of reaction. Instead he got nothing. “What do you want to do about Warch?” asked Nance.

Arthur paused for a minute and pondered the question. “For now, nothing. I read his personality profile about four years ago; he's not the type to go to the press. Besides, the Secret Service is not in the business of embarrassing the president. In the meantime, tell Mr. Garret to back off, and I'll prepare a contingency plan to deal with Mr. Warch if he presses the point.”

“I've already told Garret to back off, and he's obliged.”

“Have you told him anything about my proposition?”

“No, I only said that you wanted to talk to us. As far as he knows, I'm in the dark.”

“Good.”

“Are you still going to tell him?”

“Yes.”

“I'm not sure that's a good idea. You've always told me not to trust amateurs.”

“I've always told you to trust no one.” Turning
and walking across the room, Arthur looked up at the stacks of books that covered an entire wall of the study and sighed. Nance obediently followed him, saying nothing, just walking quietly two steps behind his mentor.

“Mr. Garret has his faults, but he is a highly driven man who will do anything to succeed. He was loose-lipped about the Congressman Moore thing because he didn't see the risks inherent in not keeping his mouth shut. Thanks to Mr. Warch, he has learned his lesson. Besides, with someone like Mr. Garret, his ability to keep a secret is directly related to the seriousness of the issue. The more he stands to lose, the more apt he will be to stay quiet. If we up the ante, Mr. Garret will stay quiet.”

“I see your line of logic, but are you sure we need him?”

“Yes, there are some concessions I'm going to want for helping him.”

Nance nodded his head. “As you wish.”

“Let's join our friend.” Before going outside, Arthur picked up the humidor and offered a cigar to Nance and then took one for himself. The two then walked toward the French doors and out into the dark fall night.

Garret was standing at the edge of the veranda nervously waiting to be called back inside. He knew Nance was telling Arthur about the problem with Warch, and he was worried about how Arthur would react. He had heard some scary stories regarding the former black-operations director for the CIA.

Arthur Higgins had directed some of the Agency's most secret operations for almost thirty
years before being forced out. The official reason given for his departure was his age and the fall of the Iron Curtain. But the whispers in the intelligence community were that he couldn't be controlled—that he had decided one too many times to run his own operation, independent of executive and congressional approval.

Garret turned when he heard the dress shoes of Nance and Arthur on the brick patio.

“How do you like the view?” asked Arthur.

During the five minutes that Garret had been outside, he hadn't even noticed the great dark expanse of the Chesapeake that was before him. He glanced over his shoulder to look at it and said, “It sure is a lot bigger than I thought.”

Arthur smiled inwardly, knowing that Garret was not the type to appreciate the majesty of nature. He was such a simple, uncomplicated man. Not dumb, just one-dimensional and focused. He was easy to predict, which suited Arthur's needs perfectly. Arthur looked at Garret with his calm and confident face and in his smooth voice said, “Mr. Garret, I think I may be able to help you.”

MCMAHON THOUGHT THAT, AFTER THE MEETING with the president on Friday night, he would be spending all weekend with a team of agents poring over Special Forces personnel files. The president's promise of complete cooperation was short-lived. Saturday and Sunday had passed without a single file being reviewed. Someone had managed to change the president's mind, and McMahon had a good idea who it was. Late Sunday, McMahon received word through the Joint Chiefs that he was to show up at the Pentagon on Monday morning at 7 A.M. sharp. He was told he could bring two people to assist him in the reviewing of a select group of files. Just how select these files were, McMahon could only wonder. One thing was certain though, his patience was running thin.

As McMahon walked down a long, stark hall, located somewhere in the basement of the Pentagon, he wondered if this would be a waste of his time or if they were finally done jerking him around. He had decided to bring Kennedy and Jennings with him, and the three of them obediently
followed the Army lieutenant who was escorting them to the Pentagon's offices for the Joint Special Operations Command, or JSOC, pronounced “jaysock.” The actual field headquarters was located at Pope Air Force Base in North Carolina.

They had already passed through three security checkpoints by the time they reached their destination. At the door to JSOC they were asked for their identification by a Marine sitting behind bulletproof Plexiglas. After verifying their IDs, the Marine pressed a button and the outer door opened. The Army lieutenant led the three visitors into a comfortable and functional reception area, where he told them to take a seat.

Several minutes later a one-star general emerged with a cup of coffee in his left hand. The man had short, bristly, black hair and was about five ten. The dark green shoulder boards holding his general's star jutted straight out from his neck. He was a posterboard U.S. Marine, from his square jaw to his perfectly pressed pants and spit-shined shoes. McMahon couldn't help but notice that the general's shoulders were almost twice as broad as his waist. Most of the generals that McMahon knew showed a little more in the area of girth than this one.

The general stuck out his right hand. “Special Agent McMahon, General Heaney. Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you, General.” McMahon winced slightly as the bones in his hand were squeezed tightly together by the pit bull standing before him.

“This must be Dr. Kennedy and Special Agent Jennings.” Jennings and Kennedy shook Heaney's hand. McMahon flexed his hand in an effort to shake the sting from the general's handshake.

“Would any of you like some coffee before we get started?”

McMahon and Kennedy said yes, and the general led them down the hall to a small kitchen. He grabbed a pot of coffee and said, “You may want to add some water to this. I make my coffee a little on the thick side.” McMahon took a sip and agreed.

“Special Agent Jennings, can I get you a soda or something?”

“Do you have any diet Coke?”

“I keep a private stash in my office. Hold on, I'll be right back.”

“Sir, please don't bother. Water will be fine.”

“It's no bother at all.” The general disappeared down the hallway.

A moment later, the general came around the corner with two cans of diet Coke. “I brought an extra one just in case you're really thirsty.”

Jennings extended her hands. “Thank you, sir. You didn't have to go to all that trouble.”

“No trouble at all. Come on, let's go down the hall. I want to introduce you to someone.” They all left the room and walked down several doors. The general stopped and ushered them into a state-of-the-art conference room. Each spot at the table was equipped with a phone, a retractable keyboard, and a computer monitor mounted underneath the surface of the conference table.

“This is where we'll be spending most of our
time. Please, make yourselves comfortable. I'll be back in a minute.”

When the general returned several minutes later, he was carrying a stack of files and was accompanied by a senior female naval officer. “Everyone, this is Captain McFarland. She is our unit psychologist.” Dr. McFarland introduced herself to everyone while General Heaney arranged the files into three stacks on the table. “We've got one more person joining us.” The general pressed the intercom button in front of him and said, “Mike, would you please send Mr. Delapena in.”

“Yes, sir.”

The general looked up from the phone and asked everyone to be seated. A moment later a man in a blue suit and striped tie entered the conference room and placed a briefcase on the floor next to his chair. The man was of average height and weight, with fair skin and a deeply receding hairline. The general introduced him only as Mr. Delapena.

McMahon stared at him intently, trying to decipher what a nonmilitary person had to do with the Special Forces. “Mr. Delapena, you didn't say which agency you were affiliated with.”

“I work for the National Security Agency.”

“What does the NSA have to do with this case?”

“The NSA is involved in the safeguarding and dissemination of any information pertaining to the national security of the United States.”

“So Mr. Nance sent you to keep an eye on things?”

Delapena looked at the general but did not respond to McMahon's question. After several moments of awkward silence the general clapped
his hands together and said, “All right, let's get started.” The general patted his hands on two of the three stacks he had sitting in front of him. “These are the personnel files of all black, retired Special Forces commandos between the age of twenty-four and thirty-four. They are arranged in stacks according to which organization they served under. The stack on my far left consists of former Green Berets, the stack in the middle is made up of Delta Force commandos, and the one on the end is Navy SEALs. There are one hundred and twenty-one African-Americans between the age of twenty-four and thirty-four that are retired Green Berets, thirty-four Delta Force commandos, and two Navy SEALs.

“Before we go any further, I would ask that if you decide to contact any of these individuals you would allow us to accompany you?” The general looked to McMahon for the answer.

“I don't see a problem with that.”

The general nodded and then handed three files across the table. McMahon opened the file and looked up and down the single sheet of paper. It contained a photograph stapled to the upper-right corner and a list of basic information including birth date, Social Security number, educational background, date of enlistment, and date of discharge. McMahon flipped the page over and it was blank. Moving only his eyes, McMahon looked up at the general. “Where are the psychological profiles and performance reviews?”

The general looked to Delapena and then McMahon. “At the direction of the Joint Chiefs and the NSA, they were pulled.”

McMahon tossed the file back across the table and said, “This does me absolutely no good. I need to establish a motive, and I can't do it with a photograph, a date of birth, and an educational summary. The president promised me that I would be given full cooperation.” McMahon looked away from the general to Delapena. “Does the president know about this?”

“Mike Nance has briefed him thoroughly.”

“I'll bet he has.… Okay, if you guys want to do this the hard way, that's fine with me, because I'm done screwing around. We've got two dead congressmen, two dead senators, and an attempt has been made on the president's life.” McMahon gritted his teeth and pointed across the table at Delapena. “The biggest threat to national security right now is the people responsible for those murders. I could care less about some operation you guys ran in some jerkwater, third-world country ten years ago.” McMahon stood up and said to Kennedy and Jennings, “Come on, let's go.” Looking at Delapena he said, “If this is the way you want to do this, I'll be back tomorrow with a stack of subpoenas and fifty agents.”

Kennedy and Jennings stood and started for the door. The general looked at Delapena, silently urging him to say something.

As they reached the door, Delapena said, “No, you won't.”

“What did you say?” McMahon asked as he turned around.

“I don't think that would be a very good idea.”

“Listen here, Mr. Delapena, let's get something
straight. I work for the FBI, and you work for the NSA. This is a domestic investigation, and we have the jurisdiction, not you. The law is very clear on this, and considering the high profile of this case, I will have no problem finding a judge that will grant me a broad and sweeping subpoena.”

“And I will have no problem finding a judge to block it. You see, Mr. McMahon, the laws regarding issues of national security are also very broad and sweeping.”

McMahon walked back, leaned over, and placed both hands on the table. He brought his face to within a foot of Delapena's and said, “You tell Mike Nance that if he tries to block my subpoena, I'll file an obstruction of justice charge against the NSA and hold the biggest press conference this town has ever seen. I'm sure the media would love to find out that the FBI believes these murders were committed by United States–trained military commandos. And I'm sure they'll find it even more interesting that NSA is trying to block our investigation.” McMahon backed up. “Those cynical bastards will eat you alive.”

“Mr. McMahon, if you breathe a word of this to the media, you'll be out of a job.”

McMahon felt his temper stirring and strained to keep it in check. “Come on, Delapena, you've got to do better than that. You have absolutely no leverage on this.” McMahon turned to the general. “All I have to do is hint at your lack of cooperation to the media and every congressman and senator will be over here demanding that you open your files. And not just the files I'm interested in, they'll want to
see everything. They'll threaten to cut every penny of funding from your budget, and then they'll set up a series of committees to investigate any wrongdoing. They'll be all over your case for the next two years.”