Term Limits (28 page)

MICHAEL WAS PARKED IN FRONT OF A BRICK apartment building in the Adams Morgan neighborhood of D.C. He sat behind the wheel and sipped a cup of piping hot Colombian coffee he had just picked up at the Starbucks two blocks away. He looked down at his digital phone and then up at the Ford Explorer that was parked three cars ahead of him. It belonged to the man he wanted to talk to. O'Rourke had already called up to the apartment twice and had got the answering machine both times.

O'Rourke was growing impatient. He desperately wanted to talk to the man who lived in the building. He tapped his hand on the steering wheel and guessed that his friend was out for a jog. O'Rourke knew he was in town because he had called his office and checked. Five minutes and half a cup of coffee later, he saw a man with a dark blue baseball cap and a large backpack thrown over his shoulder round the corner.

Michael set his coffee in the center console and got out of his truck. Straightening his tie, he walked up onto the curb and locked eyes with the man. “You're awfully hard to get ahold of.”

The lean individual gave Michael a surprised look. “I'm sorry. I've been on the run.”

“Don't you get your messages? I've called a dozen times in the last three days.” Michael stuck out his hand, and his friend grabbed it.

“Sorry, I've been awfully busy.” The man, who was six years Michael's elder, adjusted the backpack on his shoulder and glanced up and down the street with his alert eyes.

Michael looked around. “Am I keeping you from something?”

“I have a lot to do today, but I can always spare a few minutes for my little brother's best friend.”

O'Rourke was warmed by the comment. The man standing before him was Scott Coleman, the older brother of Mark Coleman, O'Rourke's best friend who was killed a year earlier. Scott Coleman was the former commander of SEAL Team Six, America's premier counterterrorism unit. He also happened to be the person Michael had been worrying about since last Friday.

Coleman had left the SEALs almost a year ago after a highly decorated sixteen-year stint. Despite his illustrious career, he did not leave on a happy note. He had lost half of his SEAL team in a mission over northern Libya the previous year.

Upon returning from the mission Coleman was informed that their assault on a terrorist training camp had been compromised because a high-profile politician had leaked the mission. When his superiors refused to reveal the identity of the politician, Coleman resigned in disgust. O'Rourke had found out through Senator Olson, who was the chairman of the Joint Intelligence Committee, that Senator Fitzgerald was the person in question.

Michael had labored as to whether he should tell Coleman. They had grown closer since the death of Mark Coleman, and while on a hunting trip the previous fall Michael finally decided to confide in the warrior. Seamus was right: if they were his men, he would want and deserve to know. Coleman had taken the news about Fitzgerald in silence, and that was the only time he and Michael had discussed the issue. But when Senator Fitzgerald turned up dead a week ago, Michael could only wonder.

O'Rourke put his hands in his pockets and shifted uneasily. “That was quite a deal with the president's helicopter this afternoon. You wouldn't by chance know anything about who might do such a thing, would you?”

“Nope.” Coleman stared unflinchingly at Michael with his bright blue eyes.

“Do you remember that hunting trip we went on last year?”

“Of course.”

“Do you remember that bit of information I passed on to you?”

“Yep.”

Michael returned Coleman's stare and nodded.
After several moments of silence Michael decided to change his approach. “So what do you think about the assassinations?”

Coleman's face stayed expressionless. “I'm not doing a lot of mourning, if that's what you're asking.”

“No.” O'Rourke shook his head. “I didn't think you would be. Any idea who might be behind them?”

Coleman cocked his head to the side. “No, do you?”

“I might.” Michael rocked back and forth on his heels.

“Are you alone?”

“Yes.”

“You haven't by chance talked to anyone at the FBI lately?”

O'Rourke shook his head.

“Good. Are you planning on talking to anyone at the FBI?”

“No. I think you and I can handle this one-on-one.”

Coleman raised one of his eyebrows and shot Michael a questioning look.

“Hypothetically,” asked O'Rourke, “if you knew who the assassins were, do you think you could give them a message from me?”

“Hypothetically?” Coleman folded his arms across his chest. “I suppose almost anything is possible.”

“Tell them”—Michael leaned in close—“that there has been enough killing. Tell them to give us some time to implement their reforms before this thing gets any uglier.”

“That sounds like a good idea, but I'm not so sure the president and his people have gotten the hint.
And now our friend Senator Olson is trying to screw things up.” Coleman shook his head. “I don't think these guys are done killing. At least not until the president and the others come around.”

“So you think there will be more assassinations?”

“I wouldn't know.”

Michael rolled his eyes. “Hypothetically.”

“Hypothetically speaking … who knows?”

Both men stared each other down for a while, both refusing to blink. Finally Coleman looked at his watch and said, “I'm running late. I should really get going. Let's get together for lunch next week.”

Michael reached out and grabbed Coleman's arm. “Scott, I understand why you're doing what you're doing. If Fitzgerald had compromised the security of me and my men during the Gulf and gotten even one of my men killed, I would have come home and gutted him like a pig. I'm not going to pass judgment on you, but I think it's time to let the politicians finish what's been started.”

“Like they did in Iraq.” Coleman shook his head. “I think these boys are going all the way to Baghdad. No half-assed jobs this time. You politicians, present company excluded, have a history of screwing things up when the clear objective is within reach.”

Michael couldn't argue with the historical comparison. “Let it rest” was the only answer he could muster.

Coleman nodded and turned toward his apartment. As he reached the first step, he turned to Michael and said, “There is one thing you can do. Do you still keep in touch with Senator Olson?”

“Yes.”

“It might be a good idea to tell him now is not a good time to get into bed with the president.”

Michael felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. “Keep Erik out of this, Scott.”

“I'm sure Erik will be fine. I'm just saying hypothetically it would be a good idea to warn him.” Coleman gave Michael a half salute and entered the building.

McMahon walked down the executive hallway at a quicker than normal pace. The day had been one of nonstop commotion. The media was everywhere, sticking a microphone or a camera in McMahon's face at every turn. The events surrounding the president's unusual flight to Camp David were coming together like a jigsaw puzzle, and a crucial piece of the puzzle had just been discovered. McMahon hadn't had the chance to check his voice mail until just minutes before. The message left by the assassins had sat untouched for over five hours. McMahon nodded to Director Roach's secretary and continued through the door, closing it behind him.

Roach was on the phone and looked up at McMahon. McMahon towered over the edge of Roach's desk, waving his finger in a circular motion, signaling his boss to wrap up the conversation, that there was something more important to talk about. Roach nodded and told the person on the other end that he needed to go. Hanging up the phone, Roach asked, “What's up?”

“We got a message from our friends and it's been sitting under my nose all day.”

“What do you mean ‘friends'?” Roach asked with a quizzical look on his face.

“The assassins.” McMahon walked around the edge of Roach's desk and punched his voice mail number into the phone. When it was ready to go, he pushed the speaker button. “Listen to this.”

The computerized voice played from the small speaker. Roach sat transfixed, listening intently as light was shed on the afternoon's events. When the message was over, Roach asked McMahon to play it again. After it was played for the second time, McMahon saved it and looked to his boss for a reaction.

“Who in the hell are these guys?” Roach asked with a deeply puzzled look.

“They're not terrorists, Brian. Let's come to an agreement on that right now, and they're not some fringe white-supremacist group. If they were, they would have blown the president out of the sky. Terrorists don't give a shit about killing Secret Service agents or Marines. These guys are exactly who Kennedy said they were from day one. They're former commandos.”

“I think you're right, and besides, terrorists wouldn't send this to us, they'd send it to the media. The more exposure, the better. … Can we be sure this is from the group responsible for the previous attacks?”

“I'm ninety-nine percent sure. The message was left about fifteen minutes after Marine One took off from the White House, and the computerized voice sounds the same as the one that was left with ABC after Basset's assassination. I'm having our lab analyze the sound signature right now.”

“How long will it take them to verify?”

“They told me within the hour. When are you going to tell the president?”

“I'm flying out to Camp David in about thirty minutes to brief him. I'll wait and do it in person.” Roach stared off at nothing for a moment while he thought about the tape. “You don't have to come if you don't want to. I'm sure you've got plenty to keep you busy around here. Besides, I know how much you hate these briefings.”

“Are you crazy? I wouldn't miss seeing the expression on Garret's face when he hears that these guys are onto him.”

Roach nodded his head in agreement and looked at his watch. “Be back up here in thirty minutes. I've got a chopper picking us up on the roof.”

“One more thing, the boys over at the Secret Service have been getting beat up all day. If it's all right with you, I'd like to let Jack Warch take the lead on telling the president about the radar units and the flare launcher. I'll back him up on what we're doing to investigate the new evidence, and I'll let you handle the message from the assassins if you want.”

“No, that's all right, you can handle it, and go ahead and let Warch take the lead.”

McMahon left Roach's office and headed back to his.

The chopper ride from the Hoover Building to Camp David took about twenty-five minutes. Roach, McMahon, and two of the director's bodyguards sat in back. Roach utilized the time by having
McMahon bring him up to speed on every aspect of the investigation. After landing, they were driven to the main cabin and escorted to the conference room.

It was just after 7 P.M. when the president and Garret entered the room, taking their spots at the head of the table. Mike Nance was seated at the far end of the table so he could observe everyone, while Stansfield, Roach, and McMahon were seated on the one side, with Warch and Director Tracy on the other.

Garret looked at Roach and in a tired voice asked, “Director Roach, do you have any new developments to report since we talked earlier?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, we have received a message from the assassins. I'll let Special Agent McMahon fill you in.” Roach turned to McMahon and nodded.

Each spot at the large conference table had a phone in front of it. McMahon pulled the one in front of him closer and punched in his voice mail number. “Just before we left this evening, we discovered a message left by the assassins. If you'll bear with me for a moment, I'll retrieve it.” McMahon finished accessing the message, hit the speaker button, and slid his chair back. The message started to play:

“Special Agent McMahon, we know you have been placed in charge of investigating the assassinations of Senator Fitzgerald, Congressman Koslowski, Senator Downs, and Speaker Basset. We are sending you this message because we do not want to fight our battle in the media.” Both the president
and Garret looked up at McMahon upon hearing his name.

The message continued while everyone listened intently. When the tape ended with, “Mr. President, the Secret Service cannot protect you from us. They can make our job more difficult, but they cannot stop us from ending your life. This is your last warning,” the pale president looked to Jack Warch and Director Tracy for reassurance but only got straight faces and silence in return. Garret leaned back in his chair and placed both hands under his armpits to keep them from shaking. The silence was only making him more uncomfortable, so he looked at McMahon and snapped, “How do we even know if this thing is real?”

McMahon responded in an even tone, “Some of our lab technicians analyzed it just before I left. They say it has the same voice signature of the recording we received after Speaker Basset was shot.”

Garret started to grind his teeth. He didn't like surprises, and he had no doubt that McMahon and Roach had intentionally withheld the tape from him until just now. Through clenched teeth he asked, “How long have you known about this tape?”

“I checked my voice mail for the first time since this morning at about six this evening.”

“When did the assassins leave it?”

“At about twelve-thirty this afternoon.”

Garret sprang to the edge of the table. “You've had this since twelve-thirty and you haven't told us about it?”

“The assassins left it on my voice mail at twelve-thirty,
but I did not discover it until six. Considering the fact that we were coming out here to brief you at seven, Director Roach and I decided that we would play the recording for you when we got here.”