Term Limits (33 page)

Garret's eyes opened wide at the mention of wiretaps. He threw his hand up to catch the president's attention. “Jim, I think we need to talk to the Justice Department before we start running around—”

“Shut up, Stu. I'm not done.”

The unprecedented rebuke immediately silenced Garret. He sank back into his chair and Stevens continued.

“We are in the middle of a crisis, and I'm not going to sit around and wait for the FBI to do this by the book. We don't have the time. The CIA and the NSA are better equipped to get quick results and do it without raising too much attention. I want phones bugged, and I want them bugged now. I want every militia group in the country shaken down for information. If we still think these assassins are former commandos, I want every former commando questioned by the end of the week, and the ones that look suspicious—bug their phones and set up surveillance. I want results, damn it!”

Garret tried again to dissuade his boss. “Jim, there are some serious legal issues that need to be addressed before we run off half-cocked.”

“I don't want to hear about it, Stu. Don't tell me there aren't ways to do it. I'll sign an executive order, I'll sign a national security directive, I'll declare martial law if I have to, but I want these bastards caught, and I want it done quickly!” Stevens tossed the remote control onto the table. “Figure out the logistics and make it work. I want
the CIA and the NSA involved, and I don't want any leaks to the press. Am I understood?” All heads in the room nodded yes, and Stevens moved for the door, saying, “Stu and Mike, when you're done down here, come up to my office.” A Secret Service agent opened the door and the president shouted over his shoulder on the way out, “I want everyone back here at seven A.M. tomorrow, and I want some results.”

Darkness was falling on the city. Michael stared out the window at the bright fall leaves hanging from the old oak tree in front of his house. He breathed deeply and ran his fingers through Liz's thick, black hair, while rubbing his stiff neck with his other hand. Michael sat on the couch with his feet up on the coffee table. Liz had both arms wrapped around his waist, and her head rested on his chest. Her feet were tucked up behind her on the couch, and she listened to Michael's heartbeat. The rhythm of it brought her in and out of a light sleep.

Liz had been in a meeting with her editor when the news of Olson's assassination broke. Knowing that Michael was eating lunch with the senator, she rushed to find out if he was all right. Michael's secretary informed her that he was unhurt and on his way home. Liz left the office immediately and took a cab to Michael's house. When she arrived, she found Michael and Tim sitting at the dining room table talking. Seamus was being held in the hospital overnight for observation. The explosion had knocked him to the ground and given him a minor
concussion. After Liz's arrival Tim left so Michael and Liz could be alone.

For the last two hours they had sat on the couch and said little. They just held each other. Michael's eyes were wide open, and the look on his face was one of deep thought. Liz stirred slightly and Michael brought his other hand down to rub her back. Scarlatti moaned and rolled over. She looked up at Michael with her deep brown eyes and asked, “What time is it?”

“It's ten after five.”

She reached up and gently touched the bandage on his forehead. “How does your head feel?”

“Fine.”

Scarlatti closed her eyes and lifted her head off Michael's chest. O'Rourke bent down and kissed her lips.

Liz pulled away and asked, “What are you going to do?”

“I'm not sure.”

“I think you should go to the FBI.”

“I need to talk to him first.”

Liz sat up. “Who is this guy?”

“I'm not dragging you any further into this thing.”

“You're not dragging me anywhere. I want to know.”

Michael shook his head. “You know enough, trust me.”

“I can understand your not wanting to tell me, but I think you should tell the FBI immediately. You owe it to Erik.”

“I'm going to meet with him first.”

Liz put both hands on his chest and pushed him back. “No you're not! I will not allow it!”

Michael grabbed her wrists and said, “Don't worry, Liz. I'll be fine.”

Scarlatti became angry. “Don't give me that Marine Corps macho bullshit! Whoever this guy is, he's a cold-blooded murderer and I don't want you meeting him alone.” Liz looked into his eyes and knew she wasn't getting through. “If you leave this house, I'm calling the FBI.”

Michael placed her hands together and looked her softly in the eyes. “Elizabeth, this man thinks of me as a brother. He would never do anything to harm me.”

Liz yanked her hands away. “You are not going to be able to change my mind on this, Michael. You either tell me who he is or I'm calling the FBI.”

Michael thought about it for a full minute and realized they were at an impasse. “You have to promise me that under no circumstances… never ever… will you reveal his name.” Liz started to protest, but Michael cut her off. “No negotiating, Liz. If you want to know, you make the promise… and if you ever break it, I will walk out of your life and never speak to you again.”

Scarlatti swallowed deeply, the last part of the comment causing a hollow feeling to develop in her stomach. “All right, I promise.”

Michael stood and started to pace in front of the window. “You've met him before… twice. His name is Scott Coleman.” Michael stopped to gauge Liz's reaction.

With eyes open wide she said, “The former Navy
SEAL? The guy you go hunting with all the time?” Michael nodded yes. “Why? Why would he do all of this. He seems so normal.”

“He is normal. As normal as a SEAL can be, that is. As to the ‘why' part of your question …” Michael shook his head. “That's another can of worms, and when I say I can't tell you about it, I am deathly serious. If I would have kept that secret to myself a year ago, none of this would have ever happened.”

Garret was nervous. Things were happening too fast and Stevens's new unmanageable attitude was only making things worse. Garret wasn't against using the CIA and NSA, just as long as they did it in a way that wouldn't come back to haunt them down the road. He stabbed out his half-finished cigarette and headed off down the hall. Without knocking, he entered Ted Hopkinson's office and stood over his desk. Hopkinson was talking on the phone, and Garret signaled for him to end the conversation. Hopkinson cut the other person off in midsentence and told her he'd have to call back.

As soon as Hopkinson hung up, Garret set a piece of paper in front of him. Four names were on it. Hopkinson looked at the names and then up at his boss. “Am I supposed to know who these people are?”

“No, but by tomorrow morning I expect you to know their life stories.”

“Who are they?”

“They are the four Secret Service agents who were blown up with Olson today.”

“And what do you want me to do with the information?”

“We've had polls telling us that as much as forty-two percent of the public believes the loss of Fitzgerald, Downs, Koslowski, and Basset may be worth it if it forces Washington to get spending under control. Most of them are saying that because they hate politicians. Well, let's see how many of them still feel that way when they're introduced to these four men and their families. I want you to find out what high schools they went to, where their parents live, where they were married, where their kids go to school. I want you to find out everything you can about them. When you're done, we'll give it to the right people, and by the end of the week you won't be able to pick up the paper or turn on the TV without seeing or hearing about these guys and their families. By next Monday I want to see that forty-two percent cut down to single digits.”

Scott Coleman left his apartment and went to the basement before leaving. Out on the front stoop he grabbed a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket and lit one. As always, he puffed on it but did not take the smoke into his lungs. Tilting his head up, he exhaled the smoke and looked at the rooftop and windows of the apartment building across the street. Next, he took a mental inventory of all the cars parked on the block, paying special attention to any vans he hadn't seen before. Last night when he went out, he had headed to the east. Tonight he would head west. Throwing his cigarette to the ground, he stomped it out with his boot and casually trotted down the steps. He looked relaxed and lackadaisical as he strode down the sidewalk, but
inside he was methodically taking note of everything around him. Things were sure to heat up, and sooner or later someone, or some agency, would come looking for him.

At the next block he stopped and waited to cross the street, using the pause to again look up and down the cross street for any vans or trucks. Crossing the intersection, Coleman turned left, continued for three blocks, and hailed a cab. The cab took him to a small bar near Georgetown. He ordered a beer, drank half of it, and then walked to the rear of the bar, toward the bathroom. Instead of stopping, he continued straight out the back door and into the alley. He walked at a brisk pace. Four blocks later, he caught another cab and took it to a house in Chevy Chase. The house belonged to a seventy-eight-year-old widow who had rented him her garage for twenty-five dollars a month. He walked along the side of the house to the garage. The keys were already out, and he opened the padlock on the main garage door. Swinging the door upward, he pulled a small black box out of his pocket and held it by his hip. Nonchalantly he walked around the car, looking down at the row of green lights, waiting to see if they would turn red and tell him his car was bugged. They stayed green. He got in the car, pulled it out of the garage, and then got back out to close the door and lock it.

Sliding back behind the wheel of the black sedan, he drove slowly for the first few blocks and then gunned it. He zipped through the city, turning randomly down the narrow streets. The BMW's diplomatic plates and a Dutch passport he kept taped
under the dashboard ensured him that he wouldn't be detained by the police. The racy driving helped release tension and served to frustrate anyone who might be trying to follow. He pulled the Beamer onto Interstate 95 and kicked in the turbo. He darted in and out of traffic until he reached Highway 50 east to Annapolis. Easing the car between two semi trucks, he slowed down to sixty-five miles an hour and stayed there for about ten minutes. When he reached Highway 424, he took it south. The clock on the dashboard read 8:10 P.M. He checked the rearview mirror often and began crisscrossing his way down county roads. Several times, he sped ahead and then pulled off the road, waiting in a patch of trees with his lights off, making sure he wasn't being tailed.

After having left D.C. almost an hour earlier, he turned onto a narrow, unmarked dirt road. The gravel made a popping noise as the wide touring tires of the BMW rolled over it. The road was lined with trees and thick underbrush. It traveled down a slight hill and cut between two ponds. A thin layer of fog stretched across the gravel, and for a brief moment the BMW was surrounded by a white mist. The car pulled back out of the cloud, ascended another small hill, and then as it crested, the lights of a small cabin could be seen less than a hundred yards away. The car rolled down the gradual slope and stopped in front of the old log cabin.

Coleman got out and looked around. Pausing, he listened for the noise of another car that might have followed him down the gravel road. Gently, he closed the car door and walked up to the porch. The
floorboards creaked as he walked across the porch, and a dog barked from inside the cabin. Without knocking, he opened the door and stepped inside. His bright blue eyes stared across the room at the man standing in front of the fireplace.

MICHAEL O'ROURKE HELD HIS .45-CALIBER Combatmaster in one hand and his digital phone in the other. Coleman looked at the gun and remained calm as Duke scampered over to greet him. The former Navy SEAL squatted down to meet the yellow Lab. Coleman looked at the bandage on Michael's forehead and asked, “What happened to your head?”

Through clenched teeth Michael replied, “I was hit with something when Erik's limousine blew up.”

Coleman's eyes opened wide. “You were there?”

“Yes.” Michael stared at Coleman's bright blue eyes and said, “Give me one good reason why I shouldn't call the FBI right now.” Coleman stood and started to walk across the room. Michael raised his gun and said, “Don't take another step.”

In a calm voice Coleman replied, “I know you'll
never use that thing on me, so put it away and we'll talk.”

“I wouldn't have used it on you before today, but now I wouldn't be so sure. I'll repeat myself one more time. Give me one good reason why I shouldn't turn you in to the FBI.”

Coleman folded his arms. “I had nothing to do with what happened today.”

Michael gave him an incredulous look. “What do you mean you had nothing to do with what happened today?”

“I didn't kill Erik. I had nothing to do with it.”

“Bullshit, Scott. I was there. I saw the whole thing.” Michael took several steps to the side to put an armchair between him and Coleman. Michael was no match for Coleman at a close distance. Even with a gun the young congressman wasn't entirely confident. Recon Marines were some of the best soldiers in the world, but Navy SEALs were in an entirely different class. Add to that the fact that Michael had been out of the Corps for close to six years and Coleman was obviously still at the top of his game, and Michael was outmatched. “You told me to warn Erik, and I did. He was ready to expose the president's plan as a sham, and then you had to come wheeling in and screw everything up!”

“Put the gun down, Michael. I had nothing to do with what happened today.”