Term Limits

by Vince Flynn

  Garret let his hands fall to the table and looked up with bloodshot eyes. “No . . . maybe a little . . . I don’t know.” Garret reached into his shirt pocket. “God, I need a cigarette.” He shoved one in his mouth and lit it. After taking a deep drag he said, “They can’t kill me if I don’t give them the chance. I won’t leave the White House for a month. I’ll take one of the guest bedrooms and move in.” Garret took several more deep drags and frowned. “I’m not scared of these terrorists. I’m worried about something else. We’ve got another problem, and it’s not good. Warch knows about the job we did on Frank Moore. He told me he knows who was involved, and if I don’t back off and listen to him, he’ll tell the FBI.” Garret stood up and started pacing. “When it rains, it pours. It’s not like we don’t already have enough problems, and now we’ve got this to deal with.”

  Nance watched Garret intently and kept his outward composure. “Did he mention my name?”

  Without looking at Nance, Garret paused and said, “Yes.”

  “Did he mention any other names?”

  “Yes.”

  “Whose?”

  Garret looked at Nance briefly and then looked at a painting on the wall. “He mentioned Arthur’s.”

  Nance felt a sharp pain shoot through his temples. “He mentioned Arthur?”

  Garret reluctantly nodded his head. “I have no idea how he found out. I didn’t talk to anyone about it.”

  Nance’s demeanor remained placid, but inside he was boiling. Without having to think very hard he knew exactly how Warch had found out. He or one of his people must have overheard Stu talking to God-knows-who about their little blackmail operation.

  “Arthur will not be happy about this. I’m sure he will want to talk to you at length. Clear your schedule for tomorrow evening. He wants to talk to us about something else, and it can’t wait. I’ll arrange for some discreet transportation.”

  21

  THE MOON WAS SHOWING ONLY A SLIVER OF white as it sat suspended above the tall pines. The four-door Crown Victoria approached the main gate of Camp David, and the two occupants in the backseat ducked down. The electric gate slid open, and the sedan accelerated past a mob of reporters kept at bay by a squad of Marines with M16s cradled across their chests.

  The pack of reporters and cameramen pushed each other to try and get a glimpse of who was in the car. The sedan continued down the road and around the first turn, where it slowed. Two identical Crown Victorias pulled off the shoulder and took up positions in front of and behind the car carrying the national security adviser and the president’s chief of staff.

  Saturday’s budget summit at Camp David had been a mixed success. Garret had come up with some accounting gimmicks that would make the budget deficit look smaller than it really was. This would enable the political leadership to say they had cut some spending, without actually making the tough choices. Their hope was that it would pacify the assassins and give the FBI some time to catch the killers.

  Mike Nance’s doubts regarding the stability of the new coalition were already proving true. Senator Olson had balked on the deal, telling the president he would have no part in misleading the American people. Olson argued that real cuts had to be made, or he was out. The silver-haired senator from Minnesota told the president he would stay quiet for one week, and if Garret was still playing his accounting games, he would expose the new budget cuts for what they were—a sham.

  Nance and Garret spent most of the fifty-minute drive talking in hushed whispers. The Maryland country roads they traveled on were dark, and traffic was light. When they reached Arthur’s estate, the lead and trailing sedans pulled off to the side, and the one carrying Nance and Garret approached the large wrought-iron gate. Two powerful floodlights illuminated the entrance to the estate. A large man dressed in a tactical jumpsuit and carrying an Uzi stepped out of the guardhouse and approached the sedan. A flashlight was taped to the underside of the machine gun’s barrel, and the guard turned it on. He pointed it toward the back window and shone the light on Nance and Garret. After identifying both men, he told the driver to pop the trunk. Walking to the rear of the car, he checked the trunk and then walked back to the guardhouse.

  Arthur was sitting behind the desk in his study watching the scene at the front gate. Embedded in the wall to the left of his desk were four security monitors and two large color TVs. Arthur watched the guard go back into the small booth, and a moment later the gate opened. The gate closed as soon as the car passed through. Looking at another monitor, Arthur watched the car snake its way up the drive and stop in front of the house, where it was met by two more guards, one of whom had a German shepherd at his side. Garret and Nance stepped out of the car and stood still while the dog sniffed them and a handheld metal detector was waved over their bodies. Finally, the door was opened from the inside, and a third guard led them down the hall to Arthur’s study.

  Arthur pressed a button on the underside of his desk, and an old framed map of the world slid down and covered the monitors. Rising from behind the desk, he walked over to the fireplace and placed one hand on the mantel. Even though Arthur was over seventy, he still had a rigid and upright frame. His silver hair was neatly combed straight back and stopped an inch above the white collar of his dress shirt. His fingernails were well manicured, and his expensive, worsted-wool suit hung perfectly from his slender frame.

  The door opened and Nance and Garret entered. Arthur kept his arm on the mantel and waited for his guests to approach. Mike Nance stopped about ten feet away and in a formal tone said, “Stu Garret, I would like to introduce you to Arthur.”

  Garret stepped forward and extended his damp, clammy hand. “It’s great to finally meet you. I’ve been looking forward to this for a while.”

  Arthur nodded his head slightly. “The pleasure is all mine.” Then, motioning toward several chairs, he said, “Please, let’s sit. Would either of you like anything?”

  Nance eased his way over to Arthur’s side. “Before we get started, I would like to go over a couple of things with you in private.”

  Arthur grasped the point and turned to his other guest. “Mr. Garret, do you like to smoke cigars?”

  Garret was caught off guard for a moment. “Ah . . . ah . . . yes, I do.”

  Walking over to the coffee table, Arthur picked up a cherrywood humidor and lifted the lid. Garret grabbed one of the cigars and smelled it. Arthur handed him a cigar guillotine, and Garret snipped off the end. “I’ll show you to the door.” Arthur led Garret across the room toward a pair of French doors. “The view of the Chesapeake is beautiful from the veranda. I think you will enjoy it.” Arthur opened one of the doors. “We’ll be out to join you in a minute.” Closing the door behind his guest, Arthur turned and walked back to Nance. “What is the problem?”

  “It seems that our involvement in the blackmailing of Congressman Moore is known by someone outside the original group.”

  “And who would that be?”

  “Jack Warch, he’s the special agent in—”

  “I know who he is. How did he find out?”

  Nance glanced toward the veranda and then told Arthur about the confrontation between Garret and Warch. When he was done, Arthur asked, “And how do you think Mr. Warch found out?”

  “I think that Mr. Garret wasn’t as careful as he should have been.”

  “I would concur.”

  Arthur was not an animated person, but Nance had expected him to display some type of reaction. Instead he got nothing. “What do you want to do about Warch?” asked Nance.

  Arthur paused for a minute and pondered the question. “For now, nothing. I read his personality profile about four years ago; he’s not the type to go to the press. Besides, the Secret Service is not in the business of embarrassing the president. In the meantime, tell Mr. Garret to back off, and I’ll prepare a contingency plan to deal with Mr. Warch if he presses the point.”

  “I’ve already told Garret to back off, and he’s obliged.”


  “Have you told him anything about my proposition?”

  “No, I only said that you wanted to talk to us. As far as he knows, I’m in the dark.”

  “Good.”

  “Are you still going to tell him?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m not sure that’s a good idea. You’ve always told me not to trust amateurs.”

  “I’ve always told you to trust no one.” Turning and walking across the room, Arthur looked up at the stacks of books that covered an entire wall of the study and sighed. Nance obediently followed him, saying nothing, just walking quietly two steps behind his mentor.

  “Mr. Garret has his faults, but he is a highly driven-man who will do anything to succeed. He was loose-lipped about the Congressman Moore thing because he didn’t see the risks inherent in not keeping his mouth shut. Thanks to Mr. Warch, he has learned his lesson. Besides, with someone like Mr. Garret, his ability to keep a secret is directly related to the seriousness of the issue. The more he stands to lose, the more apt he will be to stay quiet. If we up the ante, Mr. Garret will stay quiet.”

  “I see your line of logic, but are you sure we need him?”

  “Yes, there are some concessions I’m going to want for helping him.”

  Nance nodded his head. “As you wish.”

  “Let’s join our friend.” Before going outside, Arthur picked up the humidor and offered a cigar to Nance and then took one for himself. The two then walked toward the French doors and out into the dark fall night.

  Garret was standing at the edge of the veranda nervously waiting to be called back inside. He knew Nance was telling Arthur about the problem with Warch, and he was worried about how Arthur would react. He had heard some scary stories regarding the former black-operations director for the CIA.

  Arthur Higgins had directed some of the Agency’s most secret operations for almost thirty years before being forced out. The official reason given for his departure was his age and the fall of the Iron Curtain. But the whispers in the intelligence community were that he couldn’t be controlled—that he had decided one too many times to run his own operation, independent of executive and congressional approval.

  Garret turned when he heard the dress shoes of Nance and Arthur on the brick patio.

  “How do you like the view?” asked Arthur.

  During the five minutes that Garret had been outside, he hadn’t even noticed the great dark expanse of the Chesapeake that was before him. He glanced over his shoulder to look at it and said, “It sure is a lot bigger than I thought.”

  Arthur smiled inwardly, knowing that Garret was not the type to appreciate the majesty of nature. He was such a simple, uncomplicated man. Not dumb, just one-dimensional and focused. He was easy to predict, which suited Arthur’s needs perfectly. Arthur looked at Garret with his calm and confident face and in his smooth voice said, “Mr. Garret, I think I may be able to help you.”

  22

  MCMAHON THOUGHT THAT, AFTER THE MEETING with the president on Friday night, he would be spending all weekend with a team of agents poring over Special Forces personnel files. The president’s promise of complete cooperation was short-lived. Saturday and Sunday had passed without a single file being reviewed. Someone had managed to change the president’s mind, and McMahon had a good idea who it was. Late Sunday, McMahon received word through the Joint Chiefs that he was to show up at the Pentagon on Monday morning at 7 A.M. sharp. He was told he could bring two people to assist him in the reviewing of a select group of files. Just how select these files were, McMahon could only wonder. One thing was certain though, his patience was running thin.

  As McMahon walked down a long, stark hall, located somewhere in the basement of the Pentagon, he wondered if this would be a waste of his time or if they were finally done jerking him around. He had decided to bring Kennedy and Jennings with him, and the three of them obediently followed the Army lieutenant who was escorting them to the Pentagon’s offices for the Joint Special Operations Command, or JSOC, pronounced “jaysock.” The actual field headquarters was located at Pope Air Force Base in North Carolina.

  They had already passed through three security checkpoints by the time they reached their destination. At the door to JSOC they were asked for their identification by a Marine sitting behind bulletproof Plexiglas. After verifying their IDs, the Marine pressed a button and the outer door opened. The Army lieutenant led the three visitors into a comfortable and functional reception area, where he told them to take a seat.

  Several minutes later a one-star general emerged with a cup of coffee in his left hand. The man had short, bristly, black hair and was about five ten. The dark green shoulder boards holding his general’s star jutted straight out from his neck. He was a posterboard U.S. Marine, from his square jaw to his perfectly pressed pants and spit-shined shoes. McMahon couldn’t help but notice that the general’s shoulders were almost twice as broad as his waist. Most of the generals that McMahon knew showed a little more in the area of girth than this one.

  The general stuck out his right hand. “Special Agent McMahon, General Heaney. Nice to meet you.”

  “Nice to meet you, General.” McMahon winced slightly as the bones in his hand were squeezed tightly together by the pit bull standing before him.

  “This must be Dr. Kennedy and Special Agent Jennings.” Jennings and Kennedy shook Heaney’s hand. McMahon flexed his hand in an effort to shake the sting from the general’s handshake.

  “Would any of you like some coffee before we get started?”

  McMahon and Kennedy said yes, and the general led them down the hall to a small kitchen. He grabbed a pot of coffee and said, “You may want to add some water to this. I make my coffee a little on the thick side.” McMahon took a sip and agreed.

  “Special Agent Jennings, can I get you a soda or something?”

  “Do you have any diet Coke?”

  “I keep a private stash in my office. Hold on, I’ll be right back.”

  “Sir, please don’t bother. Water will be fine.”

  “It’s no bother at all.” The general disappeared down the hallway.

  A moment later, the general came around the corner with two cans of diet Coke. “I brought an extra one just in case you’re really thirsty.”

  Jennings extended her hands. “Thank you, sir. You didn’t have to go to all that trouble.”

  “No trouble at all. Come on, let’s go down the hall. I want to introduce you to someone.” They all left the room and walked down several doors. The general stopped and ushered them into a state-oftheart conference room. Each spot at the table was equipped with a phone, a retractable keyboard, and a computer monitor mounted underneath the surface of the conference table.

  “This is where we’ll be spending most of our time. Please, make yourselves comfortable. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  When the general returned several minutes later, he was carrying a stack of files and was accompanied by a senior female naval officer. “Everyone, this is Captain McFarland. She is our unit psychologist.” Dr. McFarland introduced herself to everyone while General Heaney arranged the files into three stacks on the table. “We’ve got one more person joining us.” The general pressed the intercom button in front of him and said, “Mike, would you please send Mr. Delapena in.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The general looked up from the phone and asked everyone to be seated. A moment later a man in a blue suit and striped tie entered the conference room and placed a briefcase on the floor next to his chair. The man was of average height and weight, with fair skin and a deeply receding hairline. The general introduced him only as Mr. Delapena.

  McMahon stared at him intently, trying to decipher what a nonmilitary person had to do with the Special Forces. “Mr. Delapena, you didn’t say which agency you were affiliated with.”

  “I work for the National Security Agency.”

  “What does the NSA have to do with this case?”

  “The NSA is involved in the saf
eguarding and dissemination of any information pertaining to the national security of the United States.”

  “So Mr. Nance sent you to keep an eye on things?”

  Delapena looked at the general but did not respond to McMahon’s question. After several moments of awkward silence the general clapped his hands together and said, “All right, let’s get started.” The general patted his hands on two of the three stacks he had sitting in front of him. “These are the personnel files of all black, retired Special Forces commandos between the age of twenty-four and thirty-four. They are arranged in stacks according to which organization they served under. The stack on my far left consists of former Green Berets, the stack in the middle is made up of Delta Force commandos, and the one on the end is Navy SEALs. There are one hundred and twenty-one African-Americans between the age of twenty-four and thirty-four that are retired Green Berets, thirty-four Delta Force commandos, and two Navy SEALs.