Term Limits (34 page)

“Bullshit!” Michael yelled. “You're just trying to save your ass! How in the hell could you kill those Secret Service agents?” Michael extended the gun as far as he could. The sights aimed right for the center of Coleman's forehead. “You killed five good
men today and sent another two dozen civilians to the hospital. I should put a bullet in your head right now and end this whole thing.”

Michael thought he heard a noise, and then without further warning the door to the cabin flew open. Michael dropped to a knee and wheeled toward the door as Duke started to bark. Coleman did the same, retrieving his 9mm Glock from underneath his jacket.

Seamus O'Rourke stood in the doorway steadying himself by placing one hand on the frame. He was wearing the same suit he had had on at lunch minus the tie. Seamus looked at the two guns and growled, “Put those damn things away before you two hurt someone.” Coleman did so on command, but Michael was a little more hesitant. Seamus admonished him with another look and said in a softer tone, “Michael, put your gun away.”

Michael lowered the gun but did not put it away. “You're supposed to be in the hospital.”

“I am very aware of that, but knowing that this meeting would take place, I decided that my presence was more needed here than in bed.” Seamus shuffled over and dropped his body into one of the old tattered leather chairs by the fireplace. Rubbing his forehead, he said, “Scott, would you please fix me a glass of Scotch, and, Michael, for the last time put that damn gun away!”

Michael looked down at his grandfather. “I'm not putting this thing away until he explains what in the hell he was doing today.”

“He wasn't doing anything today. Someone else killed Erik.”

“What?” asked a disbelieving Michael.

“Someone else killed Senator Olson. Scott and his boys had nothing to do with it.” Coleman handed the eldest O'Rourke a glass of Scotch on the rocks and took a seat on the couch.

“How would you know?” asked a confused Michael.

Seamus took a big gulp of the drink and sat back in the chair. “I know, because I helped Scott plan the first four assassinations.”

Feeling his legs weaken, Michael decided to sit down while he still had the control. “You what?”

“I helped Scott plan the first four assassinations.”

With a look of exasperation Michael asked, “Why didn't you say something at the hospital?”

“In front of all the nurses and doctors?” Seamus frowned. “I told you not to do anything until we had a chance to talk.” Seamus shook his head. “I knew with your damn temper you would demand a showdown with Scott. I called your house to check on you, and Liz told me you left to meet someone. When she got all nervous and flustered I knew you had told her.” Seamus shook his head. “Why in the hell did you do that?”

Michael looked at his grandfather with real anger for the first time in his life. “I don't think you are in any position to criticize me. I'm not the one who has been running around staging a revolution.”

Seamus's eyes narrowed. “It wasn't an easy decision. I decided to keep you out of this for your own good.”

“I can't believe you're involved in this. Does Tim know?”

“No.” Seamus shook his head. “No one knows about it with the exception of Scott, two of his men, myself, you, and now Liz.”

Michael glanced over at Coleman. “I understand why he's doing this. If half of my men were blown out of the sky because Senator Fitzgerald shot his mouth off, I would have probably killed him, too… but Seamus… for God sakes I can't believe you're involved in this.”

Seamus set his drink down. “You said you understand why Scott is involved with this—because he lost eight men. By the time I was done island-hopping around the Pacific, five hundred and thirty-six Marines had died under my command. Five hundred and thirty-six men who climbed down cargo nets into little tin cups and then flung themselves onto some little sand strip all in the name of democracy and freedom. I didn't watch all those men die so I could see idiots like Koslowski, Fitzgerald, Downs, and Basset send this country in the tank.” Seamus leaned forward. “Those men sit in their little ivory towers and play their petty games of partisan politics while people like your parents and Scott's brother are killed. While our so-called leaders are spending billions of dollars on weapons systems the military doesn't even want, while they throw billions of dollars into the department of education that doesn't educate a single child, while they waste their time debating whether or not we should have prayer in school, people are dying. They are dying because these idiots don't have the common sense to keep violent criminals behind bars. And to make things worse we have the proverbial
eight-hundred-pound gorilla sitting in the corner—a five-trillion-dollar national debt. These clowns ran up the tab, and they're gonna stick my grandchildren with the bill. It's wrong, it's immoral, and somebody had to put a stop to it.”

Michael looked at his grandfather, but said nothing. While the two O'Rourkes were locked in an icy stare, Coleman looked on. He cleared his throat and said, “You two can sort this out later. Right now we have a much bigger problem on our hands.” With raised eyebrows Coleman asked, “Who has decided to join the fight?”

Nance sat across the coffee table from Arthur as the fire burned brightly, casting a dark shadow of their figures against the far wall of the large study. They were both smiling, holding their warm snifters of cognac gently in their hands. The grandfather clock in the far corner started its first of twelve chimes, and Nance swirled the glass under his nose. They were both wearing their standard dark Brooks Brothers suits. Nance took a light sip and let it rest on his palate before swallowing. “The FBI has no idea,” said Nance. “But the president has ordered the CIA and the NSA to get involved in the investigation.”

Arthur lowered his glass and raised an eyebrow. “Really… that surprises me. How did you advise him?”

“I said nothing. Stu is trying to get him to rethink the situation, but he's having a hard time getting him to calm down. He's extremely upset about Olson.”

Arthur tilted his head back and reflected for a moment. “I don't think it will affect us. After tomorrow we will be done.” Arthur smelled his cognac but did not drink it. “How is Garret holding up?”

“He's nervous.”

Arthur raised his left eyebrow. “Please, don't tell me he's feeling guilty.”

“No, he says he doesn't care what we do just so long as he isn't caught.”

Arthur smiled and said, “I read him right from the beginning. He'll keep his mouth shut.”

“If he doesn't have a nervous breakdown in the process.”

“Don't worry, after tomorrow he can relax, and we'll both have what we want. Remind Mr. Garret to push the president toward taking a tougher stance against these terrorists. It will help him look better in the polls. The people are yearning for security right now, and after one more assassination they'll greet a suspension of rights with open arms.” Arthur gracefully stood and opened the cherrywood humidor on the table, offering a cigar to Nance. “Let's step out on the veranda and continue this conversation over a nice cigar, some good cognac, and a majestic view.” The two stood, gently cradling their snifters, and moved from the study into the dark night.

Tuesday Evening, Fairfax, Virginia

Congressman Burt Turnquist's century-old, plantation-style house sat on a beautiful two-and-a-half-acre, wooded lot in an exclusive but low-key neighborhood. A single narrow, winding road cut through
the rolling hills with no streetlights to show the way. In late fall, darkness fell on the Eastern seaboard around 5:30 P.M. The moon was finishing a cycle and was showing only a slight sliver of white. The towering old trees and a lack of moonlight gave the neighborhood a deep, dark look.

The congressman was in his second-floor study, feeling alone and isolated. His wife was on a business trip out of town and wouldn't be back until tomorrow. His closest colleague had been blown to bits the previous afternoon, and he had four complete strangers standing watch over him. In all his years as a United States congressman, he had never felt threatened. Even after Downs, Koslowski, and Fitzgerald were killed, he thought he was safe. Turnquist didn't tell anyone other than his wife, but he could understand why someone would want to kill them. He had thought about it many times since arriving in Washington eighteen years earlier. In short, they were not good men. They had their petty personal agendas and were more concerned with holding on to their positions of power than doing what was right. Year after year they said they were for benevolent change, and then behind the closed doors of their committees they blocked the very reforms they had espoused while running for reelection.

Turnquist was not sad to see them gone, but Erik Olson was a different story. Olson was a good friend. They had fought so many battles together, working behind the scenes trying to bring the two parties to a middle ground, Olson in the Senate and Turnquist in the House. Olson had been a source of
strength, always helping him steer a safe course through the often dangerous game of politics, prodding him not to give up, advising him on professional as well as personal issues.

Turnquist had warned Olson against helping the president form the new bipartisan coalition in the wake of the assassinations. Turnquist told him that although the deaths of Koslowski, Fitzgerald, Downs, and Basset were a tragedy, maybe some good could come from them. Maybe they could finally pass the reforms they had worked so hard for. The always principled Olson told Turnquist there was no room for anarchy in a democracy. Turnquist had reminded his friend of the obvious historical fact that America had come into existence through a bloody revolution.

Turnquist looked down at his journal and struggled to record his thoughts. He was trying to think of what to say at Olson's funeral. Writer's block seized him, and he looked out the window, wishing his wife were home. He couldn't see the U.S. marshal standing watch in his front yard, but he knew he was there. They had guarded him day and night for over a week, and the congressman couldn't decide if they made him feel secure or nervous.

Four U.S. marshals were currently on watch at the Turnquist house. They were two hours into a twelve-hour watch that had started at 5 P.M. Three of the four marshals were outside: one by the back door, one by the front porch, and the third sitting in a sedan at the end of the congressman's long driveway. The fourth marshal was posted inside the house at the foot of the stairs that led to the second
floor. They were more alert than they had been during the previous week's watch. The fiery deaths of the four Secret Service agents the day before reminded them that they were also targets.

The neighborhood that the congressman lived in hadn't changed much in the last fifty years. The lots were woodsy and large. Separating the congressman's land from his neighbor's behind him was a small creek that ran between the two properties. Just on the other side of the creek, about fifty yards from the house, a man peered out from behind a tree with a pair of night-vision goggles. The goggles cut through the dark forest and focused in on the marshal standing guard by Turnquist's back door. The ominous watcher was covered from head to toe in black, and his face was painted with camouflage makeup. Slung across his back was an MP-5 submachine gun with a twelve-inch silencer attached to the barrel, and gripped firmly in his hands was a 7mm Magnum sniper's rifle, also with a silencer affixed to the barrel. He whispered into the microphone hanging in front of his mouth, “Omega, this is Alpha. I'm moving into position, over.” Holding the rifle across his chest and pointed upward, he stepped out from behind the tree and moved laterally until he put another tree between himself and the marshal standing guard by the back door.

Alpha moved across the forest floor, gliding between the underbrush with a cautious, catlike manner. When he reached the creek, he put one foot slowly into the water, then followed it with the other, checking his footing before transferring his weight from one foot to the other. Upon reaching
the other side he scanned the ground for any fallen branches or twigs and pulled himself up the eroded bank. Pausing behind a tree, he checked the position of the guard and then his watch. Methodically, he glided from tree to tree, carefully picking his path. About twenty yards from the edge of Turnquist's yard, the assassin got down on his belly and started to crawl. He picked out a pine tree at the edge of the yard and slid under it, the low-slung branches of the tree making his presence impossible to detect. Alpha nestled up against the trunk and checked his watch. It was 7:19 P.M. The assassin pulled his night-vision goggles down around his neck and waited. If the marshals stayed with their routine, they would be rotating posts in about ten minutes.

Out in front of the house, the sniper's partner lay in the ditch across the street from the end of Turnquist's driveway. Covering his black tactical jumpsuit was a sniper's blanket. The strange piece of clothing consisted of a mesh netting with strips of camouflage cloth attached to it. It had taken him over forty minutes to crawl into position, slowly squirming through the tall grass and bushes on his stomach, his MP-5 cradled between his chin and elbows. He poked his head up slightly and moved the branch of a small bush in front of him. His face was painted with dark streaks of green and black makeup. Through squinted eyes, he looked at the white sedan sitting at the end of the driveway. Crouching back into the ditch, he pulled the sniper's blanket off his body, wrapped it into a tight ball, and placed it in his backpack.

He checked all of his equipment one last time, and then, just after 7:30 P.M., the sedan across the street backed up the driveway to the house. Checking the road quickly, Omega jumped to his feet and darted across the road. When he reached the other side, he jumped into a clump of bushes not more than ten feet from where the car had been. While taking deep breaths to keep his heart rate low, he said, “Alpha, this is Omega, I'm in position, over.”