Term Limits (55 page)

Stansfield's answer wasn't good enough for Garret so he redirected his question to Michael. “Congressman O'Rourke, why are you here?”

Michael looked back at him and replied, “You'll find out soon enough.”

“Mr. President.” Stansfield pulled the tape from his pocket and held it for everyone to see. “Someone left this tape on Congressman O'Rourke's doorstep this morning.” Stansfield looked at Garret and said, “Before I play it, Mr. Garret, would you like to tell us the real reason Arthur Higgins was dumped at your house last night?”

Garret shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. “I have no idea.”

Mike Nance leaned back in his chair and stared at Stansfield like a cat.

“What is on the tape?” asked Stevens.

Stansfield walked to the other end of the table and inserted the tape in the cassette player. “It is a
recording of a confession by Arthur Higgins before he was killed.” Stansfield hit play and walked back to his seat.

Just as he sat down, Michael's electronically altered voice came over the speakers. “What is your name?”

“What?”

“What is your name?”

“Arthur… Arthur Higgins.” Garret shot forward in his chair, covering his face with both hands. Reaching forward, Nance grabbed him by the arm and pulled him back, whispering in his ear, “Stay calm.”

As Nance tried to keep Garret from losing it, the tape continued, with the generic computer voice asking Arthur about his past and what he had done for the CIA.

Director Stansfield had given up on watching Garret and was locked in a stare with Nance as the tape played on.

“Mr. Higgins, were you the author of a covert operation back in the early sixties that resulted in the assassinations of several French politicians?”

“Yes.”

“Who were you working for at the time?”

“The CIA.”

“How many French politicians did you kill?”

“Two.”

“Who were they?”

“Claude Lapoint and Jean Bastreuo.”

Barely able to contain himself, the president shouted, “What?” He looked to Nance for a full thirty seconds as the tape continued to describe the
interrogation between Arthur and his captors. And then the more pertinent question was asked of the deceased Higgins.

“Did you use the recent string of assassinations as a cover to kill Senator Olson and Congressman Turnquist?”

“Yes.”

Garret yelled, “It wasn't my idea! I swear it wasn't my idea!”

Nance ripped at his arm and pulled his face close. “Shut your mouth!”

The president stared at his close advisers, frozen in disbelief, and then the other shoe dropped.

“Who else was involved in your plot to kill Senator Olson and Congressman Turnquist?”

“Mike Nance and Stu Garret.”

Garret tried to say something, but Nance pulled him back into his chair before he could.

Stevens closed his eyes and lowered his head while Nance stared unflinchingly back at Stansfield.

“Did the president know about your plans?” asked the cold, sterile voice.

The president looked to Stansfield. “I had nothing to do with this!” Stansfield ignored him and continued to stare at Nance.

Arthur's final words rang out: “I don't know.”

The tape ended, and the room was filled with an awkward silence.

A slight smile creased Nance's lips and he said, “Nice try, Thomas.”

With a placid expression Stansfield asked, “What do you mean ‘nice try'?”

“All of that is a lie, so I have to assume you either
tortured Arthur into making those bizarre accusations or you electronically altered the tape.”

Stansfield stared at Nance unflinchingly. “Congressman O'Rourke received this tape earlier today along with a letter from the assassins that were responsible for killing Senator Fitzgerald, Senator Downs, Congressman Koslowski, and Speaker Basset. They are the ones that took Arthur, not me.”

“What in the hell is going on here?” asked the president.

“I'm not sure, sir,” replied Nance. “But I think Director Stansfield is trying to blackmail us with this tape. I can assure you, and so can Stu, that we never discussed assassinating Senator Olson and Congressman Turnquist with Arthur. The entire idea is preposterous.”

“Stu?” asked the president.

Garret saw another chance to weasel his way out. “That's right, Jim. I don't know what in the hell any of this is about. The only dealings I had with Arthur were about your budget.”

Michael slid forward to the edge of his chair and placed his hands flat on the table. His movement into the arena caught everyone's eye except that of Nance, who continued to stare at Stansfield. Michael stuck a hand in front of Stansfield's face and snapped his fingers, drawing Nance's attention to him. “Senator Olson was a very good friend of mine, and I'm not in the mood to play these little games.” Michael pointed a finger at Nance's face. “You, Garret, and Arthur Higgins conspired to kill Senator Olson and Congressman Turnquist. No one
made a fake tape, and Director Stansfield didn't force a false confession out of Higgins. Let's cut the crap and get down to business.”

“Mr. O'Rourke,” replied Nance, “you are a very young man, and you do not fully understand the lengths to which some people are willing to go to get what they want in life. Do you think Mr. Stansfield rose to be the director of the world's premier spy agency by being a Boy Scout? No, he will go to almost any length to get what he wants. Congressman, you are out of your league on this one. Maybe it would be best if you stepped outside and let us talk to Director Stansfield alone.”

Pain began shooting through Michael's temples as his anger grew. He fought to suppress it as he rose to his feet. Slowly, he took off his jacket and laid it over the back of his chair. Michael leaned across the table and stuck his hand in front of Nance's face, his forefinger and thumb separated by less than an inch.

“Mr. Nance, I have about this much patience with you right now. You can either cut the shit and admit that you had Senator Olson and Congressman Turnquist killed, or I am going to walk out this door right now and hold a press conference.”

“Congressman O'Rourke, that would be a direct threat to the national security of the United States of America, and I would be forced to stop you by whatever means necessary. Now, if you would please step outside, we would like to speak to Director Stansfield alone for a minute.”

Michael took off his watch and placed it on the table. After tucking his tie into his shirt he pointed
at Nance and said, “You are going to keep your slick mouth shut for the next two minutes while I talk to Mr. Garret, and I swear if you utter a single word, I'm going to come over there and knock your fucking head off!” Michael turned immediately to Garret. “All right, you've got one chance. I know you were involved, you know you were involved, and Director Stansfield knows you were involved.” Michael walked toward the far end of the table and continued talking. “You can either admit to what you did and live the rest of your life in relative comfort, or you can stand trial and spend the rest of your life rotting in jail.” Michael rounded the end of the table and started down the side where Garret and Nance were sitting. “Of course, that's assuming the assassins don't get to you first.” Garret was sitting closest to him. Michael grabbed Garret's chair and turned it toward him so Garret couldn't look at Nance. “You see, the assassins also wrote in the letter that if you and Nance tried to squirm your way out of this, they would hunt you down and kill you.”

“Mr. President,” shouted Nance. “This behavior is entirely unacceptable!”

Before Nance could get his next sentence out, Michael shouted, “I told you to keep your mouth shut! That's my last warning!” Garret began shaking and Michael leaned in closer, placing his hands on the armrests and bringing his face within inches of Garret's. “What's it going to be? The choice is simple. Either you admit to what you did and walk away from this with your life, or you deny it and the whole country comes crashing down on you. Those assassins will release that tape if Nance
doesn't announce his resignation by noon tomorrow.” Michael screamed, “Now tell the truth!”

“I… I…” Garret started to stammer.

“Stu, don't answer him.” Nance reached for the phone to call for the Secret Service agents standing watch outside the soundproof room. “I don't know who in the hell you think you are.”

Michael saw Nance reach for the phone, and with both hands on the armrests of Garret's chair he jerked it out of his way. The chair, with Garret in it, slid across the floor and bounced into the wall. Michael took one step forward, raising his clenched left fist to his shoulder.

Nance had just got the phone to his ear when he looked up to see the looming O'Rourke. Michael's fist came crashing down like a piston, smacking Nance square in the nose and sending the national security adviser back in his chair and then springing him forward, his head thumping off the solid oak table.

The only thing that kept Nance from falling to the floor was that his chin was stuck on the edge of the table. His arms dangled at his sides, and a small pool of blood formed under his nose. Neither Stansfield nor the president moved.

Michael turned to Garret with his fist still cocked. Lunging forward, he grabbed Garret by the tie, yanked him to his feet, and slammed him against the wall. Michael released the tie and grabbed him by the throat. Garret reached up with both hands and pawed at Michael's fist. O'Rourke's hold was too strong. Michael squeezed harder, cutting off Garret's windpipe. In a voice loud enough
so only Garret could hear, Michael said, “If I had it my way, I would kill you right now. You've got one more chance to come clean and admit to what you did. If you don't, I'm going to grab you by the hair and slam your face off that table until your head splits in half!”

Michael let go of Garret's throat and took ahold of the small patch of hair on the back of his head. Swinging him around, he presented the shaking chief of staff to Stansfield and the president. O'Rourke growled, “Tell them the truth!”

Garret began whimpering, “It wasn't my fault. It was Mike and Arthur's idea.”

The president looked at Garret in utter shock. He couldn't believe any of this was happening.

“It wasn't my fault, Jim. I swear it wasn't my fault,” pleaded Garret.

Garret's denial cum admission brought a second wave of uncontrollable anger rising up from within O'Rourke. He tossed Garret to the side, and as he bounced off the wall, he was met square in the jaw by O'Rourke's fist. Garret's upper body twisted briefly in the direction of the blow, and then his knees buckled, bringing his body crashing to the floor.

Michael stood over Garret for several seconds, adrenaline rushing through his veins, fighting the urge to kick his teeth in. He took several deep breaths and got control of himself. Turning, he looked at a wide-eyed and stunned President Stevens. Michael ignored him and walked back to where he had been sitting. As he put on his watch, he said, “Director Stansfield, I'll leave you and the
president alone to work out the rest of the details. Call me later and we'll talk.” Grabbing his suit coat off the back of the chair, he walked to the door. Neither Stansfield nor the president said a word.

THE NORTHWEST WING OF MIKE NANCE'S rural-Maryland horse ranch was decorated in a turn-of-the-century Western decor. The large room was forty feet long and half as wide. Dark oak paneling covered both the walls and the ceiling. Three antique brass-and-wood ceiling fans helped partition the room into thirds. On the right was an ornate wood bar that looked as if it had been plucked out of an old Western saloon. The middle of the room was dominated by a stone fireplace with a buffalo head mounted above the mantel, and the far end was occupied by a billiards table. The walls were adorned with expensive oil paintings of Western landscapes and U.S. cavalry troops and Indians in the throes of battle.

The owner of this expensive collection of
American art had never learned to appreciate the beauty and history of the room. His input into its decoration was limited to writing the check to the interior decorator. Mike Nance stood in front of the bar with a glass of Scotch in his hand. It was his third in less than an hour. Nance stared at his reflection in the mirror that adorned the wall behind the bar. The white bandage over his nose made his two black eyes look worse. With a tense restraint, he reached up and carefully pulled off the bandage. He set the blood-soiled bandage on the bar next to his drink and decided to leave the two pieces of crimson-colored cotton in his nose.

Looking into the mirror, he could see over his shoulder that the sun was floating downward in the western sky. Nance turned and walked to a set of French doors that looked to the west and over his estate. The soon-to-be-former national security adviser judged that in another hour it would be dark. He took a drink of Scotch and again asked himself if there was a way out. He was not ready to give up. His resignation did not have to be announced until noon tomorrow, and until then he wasn't done.

Nance heard the clamor of frantic footsteps coming down the hall, and a moment later the door sprang open. Stu Garret entered wearing a tan trench coat and minus two of his upper front teeth. Garret approached with his hands thrust outward in an apologetic fashion. “I'm sorry, Mike. I didn't want to talk, but I didn't see any other way out.”

Nance had not seen Garret since he'd been knocked unconscious earlier in the day. An hour
earlier Nance had called the loose-lipped chief of staff and summoned him to his ranch. Garret continued to blab, but Nance wasn't listening. As soon as Garret came within striking distance, Nance reached out in a wide arc and slapped him in the face. The sound of skin on skin rang out through the long room.