Term Limits (38 page)

Nance said from the far end of the table, “As you were saying, Mr. President.”

“Obviously, the FBI and the Secret Service can't guarantee the safety of our congressmen and senators. Over the last two days my phone has been ringing off the hook. Every politician in this town is
demanding that they be given more protection, and I don't blame them. It's bad enough that we can't catch these terrorists, but it's inexcusable that we can't stop them from killing.” Stevens shot Roach a look of disgust. “After some discussion with General Flood and Secretary Elliot, I have decided to declare martial law for the immediate area surrounding the Capitol, the Senate and House office buildings, and the White House. Elements of the First Marine Expeditionary Force and the 101st Airborne Rangers will be used to secure the perimeter. These units will be in full combat dress and will carry live ammunition. General Flood has informed me that he will have this phase of the operation in place by sundown tonight.

“In addition to these extra measures I am going to extend to every congressman and senator the option to move themselves and their families to Fort Meade for the duration of this crisis. The National Airlift Command is flying in one hundred forty-two luxury trailers that our generals use when they are on maneuvers in the field. Fort Meade also has over two hundred housing units that are not being used, and if that's not enough, we have over a thousand modern tents equipped with generators, plumbing, and heating. The general's people are working out the details right now and estimate that they will have everything ready to go within forty-eight hours.

“In the meantime, the general is pulling special security units from the Army, Navy, Air Force, and Marines to handle protection for the ranking members of the House and the Senate. Most of these
units specialize in base security. I am told they are very well armed and trained in countercommando tactics. I have talked to the leaders of both parties, and they have agreed to reconvene for a legislative session on Monday morning, after we have these new security measures in place. Until then all official business will be suspended.” The president looked to Roach and said, “I am not happy about having to take these drastic measures, but the inability of our federal law enforcement agencies to stem the tide of violence has left me with no alternative.”

Stu Garret had the slightest hint of a smile on his lips as he watched Stevens put the screws to Roach. The president was repeating almost verbatim what Garret had told him to say an hour earlier.

McMahon, on the other hand, found nothing humorous about the situation. He didn't enjoy watching his boss take the heat for something that wasn't his fault. He looked away from the president to hide his disgust while recalling that Roach had originally suggested that the military be brought in to help secure the area around the Capitol, and that the president and Garret had said no.

Roach shrugged off the president's comments and moved the discussion forward. “Mr. President, we've had a very unusual development concerning the investigation. Special Agent McMahon received another phone call from the terrorists this morning.” Roach looked at McMahon. “Skip.”

McMahon cleared his throat. “This morning at about six-fifteen I received a very interesting phone call.” McMahon pulled a cassette tape out of his
pocket and handed it to Jack Warch. “Jack, would you please put this in the tape player for me?” Passing sheets of paper to his right and left, McMahon said, “These are transcripts of the conversation. I think it would be best if I let you hear the tape and then discuss it afterwards.” Warch walked over to the podium at the end of the table and inserted the tape. Eight small, black speakers were mounted on the walls around the room. Some static noise hissed and crackled from them, and then the sterile computer voice filled the room. “Special Agent McMahon?”

After a pause, McMahon's tired voice came over the tape. “Yes, this is he.”

CIA director Stansfield had acquired a lot of habits from his days as a spy. One of them was the ability to study people's mannerisms while listening to them speak. This occupational habit had become so ingrained in Stansfield that without consciously thinking about it, he leaned back in his chair and held the manuscript in front of him. His eyes peered over the top of the white sheet and worked their way around the table, looking for someone to focus in on.

The computerized voice continued, “I will assume you are recording and tracing this call, so I'll be brief. The people that killed Senator Fitzgerald, Congressman Koslowski, Senator Downs, and Congressman Basset did not kill Senator Olson, Congressman Turnquist, and their bodyguards.”

A quick head turn caught Stansfield's eye. He looked at Garret's wide eyes and followed them
across the table to Mike Nance. Stansfield went back to Garret and examined his facial features. The chief of staff's jaw was tense and his nostrils were slightly flared.

After a full pause, McMahon's voice responded, “I'm not sure I follow you.”

“There is a second group of killers. A group that killed Olson, Turnquist, and their bodyguards.”

Stansfield saw it again. Garret shot Nance another look.

“Why should I believe you?”

“We let Burmiester live.”

McMahon interjected while there was a pause in the tape, “For those of you who don't remember, Burmiester is the retired banker who lives across the street from Congressman Koslowski.”

McMahon's taped voice continued, “A lot of people know about Burmiester. That doesn't prove anything.”

“Mr. McMahon, we do not kill Secret Service agents and U.S. marshals. As we stated in the last message we left for you, we have a deep respect for members of the law enforcement community. Our fight is with the politicians, not you.”

“That's where you're wrong—”

The sterile voice cut McMahon off. “Ask yourself one question. If we were willing to kill four Secret Service agents to get at Olson and four U.S. marshals to get at Turnquist, why wouldn't we have blown the president out of the sky last Friday?” There was a pause in the tape and Stansfield thought of looking to see the president's reaction but was too absorbed in watching Garret. “The
answer is that we didn't kill Olson and Turnquist. Someone else did.” Stansfield saw sweat forming on Garret's upper lip and followed his eyes again to Mike Nance. When Stansfield reached Nance, the national security adviser was staring back at him. Stansfield casually lowered his eyes as if he were reading the transcript.

When the tape ended, the president sat dumbfounded, staring at the transcript in his hands. “This is unbelievable.” Stevens looked up. “Special Agent McMahon, is this for real?”

McMahon shrugged his shoulders. “Without having had the time to really analyze it, I would have to say there's a good chance.… After the Marine One incident last Friday they sent us a tape stating that the only reason they didn't blow you out of the sky was because they didn't want to kill any Marines or Secret Service agents. Now three days later, they blow up Senator Olson's limousine with four Secret Service agents in it, and then last night they kill Congressman Turnquist and four U.S. marshals. The logic is inconsistent. No offense, sir, but if I was in their shoes, I would have shot Marine One down. You are a far more important target.”

“That's assuming they had the hardware to do so,” interjected a calm and composed Mike Nance from the far end of the table. “Stinger missiles are very difficult to come by. I don't think we can be certain that they had the ability to shoot Marine One down.”

Director Stansfield stared impassively at Nance and wondered why he'd just lied. Seven months earlier Nance had personally briefed him that the
Chinese were pushing their own version of the Stinger on the open market.

McMahon continued, “Well, these last two murders are markedly different. Until last night they had been very patient… killing and then waiting to see if their demands were met. I can see where they would have wanted to kill Olson. After all, he helped form the coalition, but it makes no sense that they would rush out and kill Turnquist without giving you a chance to respond to their demands.”

“Where does it say any of this has to make sense?” snapped Garret.

McMahon ignored the comment. “I think that we have no choice but to look into the possibility that there may be another group.”

“Unbelievable,” scoffed Garret. “Has it occurred to you that maybe they sent you this message to throw you off?”

“Yes, it has.”

“Well, Mr. McMahon, I think you're having a hard enough time running this investigation without letting these terrorists confuse you with one simple phone call. It's no wonder you haven't made any progress when you're willing to run off on these wild-goose chases.”

McMahon smiled broadly and bobbed his head up and down at Garret.

“Do you find this humorous, Mr. McMahon?” asked Garret.

“No.” McMahon continued to grin.

“Then what in the hell are you smiling about?”

“If I didn't smile at your childish behavior, I wouldn't be able to keep myself from jumping over
this table and knocking your head off.” The smile faded from McMahon's face and he turned to Stevens. “As I was saying, Mr. President, we have no choice but to take this seriously.”

Stu Garret's face was turning a new shade of red, and he was about to open his mouth and explode when from the far end of the table Mike Nance drew the attention of everyone away from Garret and to himself. “I think Special Agent McMahon is correct. We can't just ignore this phone call, but I do think there are some guidelines we need to set up.” Nance continued to talk in his smooth, even voice, content that he had diverted the focus of the group away from the volatile Garret.

Michael arrived at his office at 8 A.M. and left instructions with Susan that he didn't want to be disturbed unless it was Seamus or Liz. With less than three hours of sleep since Monday, he collapsed on the sofa. As he drifted away, he thought of the innocent men and their families and, for the hundredth time in the last two days, asked himself who could be behind the killings.

He didn't know how long he'd been asleep when he heard Susan's voice calling for him over the intercom. Throwing off the blanket, he jumped off the couch and grabbed the phone. “Yes.”

“Seamus, line one.” There was a click and then Michael heard his grandfather's voice.

“Michael?”

The congressman shook his left arm, which had fallen asleep. “Yeah.”

“How are you?”

“Fine.”

“What's your schedule look like for the rest of the day?”

Michael rubbed his eyes. “Well, we're not in session until Monday, so I'm pretty open.”

“Good. I thought it might be nice for you and me to get away for a while and spend some relaxing time up in the clouds.”

Michael wondered what Seamus had in mind. It was obvious that he couldn't talk about it over the phone. “Ah… that sounds great. What time and where do you want to meet?”

“How about noon at your house?”

Michael looked at his watch and was surprised to see that it was 11:07 A.M. “Yeah, noon will be fine. I'll see you then.” Michael hung up the phone and again tried to shake the tingling feeling out of his arm. He calculated that he'd gotten about three hours of sleep, more than enough to get him through the day.

When the meeting in the Situation Room was over, Mike Nance went to his office and waited exactly one hour. Then, pressing the intercom button on his phone, he asked his secretary if she could track Stu Garret down and have him come to his office. Less than a minute later, Garret came puffing through the door and closed it behind him. His entire body was rigid. He paced back and forth in front of Nance's desk. “We've got to do something about that fucking McMahon. I knew he was going to be trouble.”

“Stu, sit down.”

Garret continued to pace. “We have got to do something. I mean we can't—”

Mike Nance rose out of his leather chair and pointed toward an armchair by the side of his desk. “Stu, sit down and shut up!” The uncharacteristic remark by the always composed Nance got Garret's attention, and he sat.

“The only thing you are going to do, Stu, is relax and keep your mouth shut. The FBI can dig all they want and they'll find nothing. That is, unless you give them a reason to look in our direction.” Nance tapped his clenched fist against his forehead and looked away for a brief moment. “Did you pay attention to what was going on in that meeting this morning?” Garret gave Nance a puzzled look. “Stansfield watched your every gesture while that tape was being played.” Nance hated dealing with amateurs and was using all of his energy to suppress the contempt he felt toward Garret at this moment. “He saw you sweating, and he saw you look at me with that stupid, panicked expression on your face. Stu, you have to get a grip on yourself. You have to learn to control your emotions, or you are going to screw this whole thing up.”

McMahon left the White House and returned to his office briefly before leaving for the Pentagon. Kennedy and General Heaney were unaware of the most recent phone call from the assassins. The president agreed that they had to take the call seriously and investigate, but at the same time he knew if the public found out, the conspiracy theorists would go nuts. They would start pointing fingers at
every institution of power, and the media would fan the flames.

The president directed McMahon to assign a small contingent of agents to look into who might have wanted to kill Turnquist and Olson. The agents were not to be told of the tape and the possibility that another group was responsible for the last two assassinations. At the urging of Mike Nance, the president asked for a list of everyone who knew about the most recent call and wanted them informed that they were not to discuss the tape with anyone.