by Vince Flynn
Garret shook his head sideways and asked himself where in the hell Mike Nance was.
37
COLEMAN FOUND A POORLY LIT PARKING LOT downtown and left the Beamer unlocked with the keys in the ignition. From there he walked the two miles to Adams Morgan. It was a good night for clear thinking. The cool air helped sharpen his senses. He was out of the game and knew it. The FBI would be waiting for him, it was only a question of where and how many agents. If he really had to, he could lose them and go underground, but that would only make him look guilty. For now the game plan would be to act normal.
As Coleman neared his apartment, he became more aware of his surroundings, looking for things he hadn’t seen before. The call from Admiral DeVoe had raised his level of paranoia significantly. By measuring his difficulty in detecting the surveillance Coleman would be able to tell how interested the FBI was. If he passed a van with dark-tinted windows, or a four-door sedan with a driver slouched behind the wheel, he would know the FBI thought him no more important than the other hundred or so former commandos they were investigating.
Coleman walked like a predator, his eyes taking inventory of everything around him. He was loose physically but tight mentally. Turning onto his street, he scanned the row of cars from beginning to end. Nothing: no vans, no trucks. They might be parked on one of the other streets. He would have to check them in the morning when he went for a jog. Turning up the steps to his apartment building, he opened the first door and then used his key to get through the second one. He climbed to the second floor and stopped in front of his door. Bending over, he checked the lock for any signs of its being picked. There were none, but that didn’t mean it hadn’t been done. There were professionals who could do it without leaving a mark. Coleman opened the door and entered. After turning on the lights, he grabbed the remote control off the coffee table and turned on the TV. With the remote control in hand, he closed the shades and turned up the volume. Coleman set the remote down and grabbed a small black sensor about the size of a garage-door opener out of his pocket. Starting by the TV, he worked his way around the room, running the box over and under every piece of furniture. The sensor didn’t detect a single listening device in the room.
Without turning any lights on, Coleman checked the kitchen, bathroom, and his bedroom. Again, he found nothing.
Instead of becoming less tense he grew more nervous. Not finding any bugs didn’t mean he wasn’t under surveillance; it could also mean that whoever was watching him was good. Coleman grabbed a small flashlight out of the top drawer of his dresser and crawled under his bed, where he kept a box of interesting but legal items.
The box was always lined up the same way, the front edge directly under the center bar of his bed frame. He turned on the flashlight and eyeballed the edge of the box. It was off center. Someone had been in his apartment.
Coleman crawled back out and brought the box with him. Staying on the floor, he put the flashlight in his teeth and opened the box. Inside was a legally registered Glock semiautomatic pistol, three clips, a box of ammo, a knife, a pair of night-vision goggles, and a variety of other things that wouldn’t be that unusual for a former Navy SEAL to own. Coleman grabbed the night-vision goggles, and went into the bathroom, where he whistled out loud and turned on the shower. Sitting on the toilet, he took off his boots and then walked to the front door. As quietly as possible, he opened the door and slid into the hallway. Staying on the balls of his feet, he ran up the carpeted steps to the top floor. Someone had been in his apartment, and they had been smart enough not to leave any electronic listening devices behind. They weren’t down on the street, so that meant one thing . . . they were in one of the nearby buildings.
Coleman reached the top floor and opened the service door that led to the roof. Inside was a black metal ladder with a hatch door at the top. He climbed the ladder and slowly opened the hatch. As he climbed onto the roof, he was careful to keep his silhouette beneath the three-foot flange that ran along all four sides of the roof. Coleman crawled to the front of the building and peeked over the edge. One month earlier he had checked to see which apartments were vacant in the surrounding buildings. Coleman started with the building right across the street. He counted up three stories and in two windows from the left. Pushing himself up just a little farther over the edge, he stared intently at the black hole and watched for movement. It was too dark to see more than a foot or two into the apartment, so he put on his night-vision goggles.
Black turned into green and white, and after several adjustments the goggles penetrated the dark, empty room. There they were, a cluster of long, black objects. He could plainly see the row of directional microphones lined up along the bottom edge of the windowsill, all of them pointing across the street at his apartment. Behind them on tripods were several cameras, and then . . . something moved. Coleman squinted and it moved again. A man was standing a ways back from the window drinking something. Coleman slid under the wall and crawled back to the hatch.
When Coleman got back to the apartment, he analyzed the situation. As a SEAL he’d been trained in countersurveillance tactics and knew what represented good surveillance . . . the people watching him from across the street were good. Coleman grabbed his jacket and brought it into the bathroom. Holding the digital phone by the rushing water of the shower he punched in the number to Michael’s pager and entered nine seven times.
McMahon stood in the middle of the empty apartment. A pair of large headphones covered his ears. He took a big gulp of coffee and glanced over at the other two agents sitting at the table in the dining room. A small red filter light illuminated their game of gin. They were on a twenty-minute rotation. Every noise in Coleman’s apartment was taped, and everyone who left or entered the building was photographed. More than a dozen tail cars of assorted makes and models were strategically positioned around the city, and a chopper was on twenty-four-hour standby, its engines warm and pilots waiting.
Michael was sitting upstairs in his den holding a mug of hot coffee when his beeper went off. He picked it up and looked at the small display. All nines. Michael set it down and thought about Coleman. Next, he looked at the tape of Arthur’s confession, and a plan started to form in his head. Going to the media would cause more harm than good, but Nance and Garret had to pay. They were going down, one way or another—whatever it took.
Stansfield climbed wearily into the back of his limo. The night had been one of many questions and no sleep. The large door at the end of the executive parking garage at Langley opened revealing the early-morning sun, and Stansfield lowered his tired eyes. The director had spent the entire night in the Operations Center trying to piece together the events surrounding Arthur’s abduction. Two important facts had been brought to Stansfield’s attention. First, strong traces of sodium pentothal had been found in Arthur’s blood. Second, a fact discovered while his people were reviewing Arthur’s security tapes, Stu Garret and Mike Nance had visited Arthur the previous week. Garret had lied.
Stansfield found out about the sodium pentothal just after midnight, but the security team that had been dispatched to Arthur’s estate didn’t discover the videotape of Garret and Nance until 6:45 A.M. He had an 8 A.M. meeting at the White House, but instead of going straight into D.C., his entourage was taking a slight detour. He had to pick up an uninvited and, he was sure, unwanted guest. Stansfield’s limousine, along with its lead and chase cars, cut through the light Saturday-morning traffic. At about 7:35 A.M. they arrived at Director Roach’s house.
Roach climbed into the limo, and the group of cars pulled away. As the director of the FBI settled into the backseat, he asked, “I assume this has something to do with Arthur turning up dead on Stu Garret’s lawn?”
Stansfield shifted so he could face Roach. “Yes, it does.”
“What is Mr. Garret doing associating with someone like Arthur?”
“I don’t know.” Stansfield shook his head and frowned.
“I would imagine you want this to
be kept as quiet as possible.”
Stansfield’s face hinted that he was struggling between doing what was comfortable and trying something new. “At this point I’m undecided. Our two agencies have worked in the past to keep things like this quiet, but I’m not so sure I wouldn’t prefer you to raise hell on this one. . . . There’s no doubt this is your jurisdiction. Arthur was kidnapped, transported across state lines, and murdered.” Stansfield bit his lip and shook his head. “Brian, Arthur was not the most law-abiding person we had at the Agency. Most of that had to do with the type of things we expected him to do, but he also did a lot of things that were not approved through the proper channels. That’s why he was forced out two years ago. We had lost control of him. To be blunt, his death is a blessing. He was a walking time bomb with enough secrets in his head to do an incredible amount of damage to not only our country but quite a few of our allies.”
“So you would like me to sit on it?”
“Yes and no. I do not want what Arthur did for the Agency to become public, but there is an issue I need resolved, and to do that I think I’m going to need you to threaten an all-out investigation.”
“This is where Garret comes in?”
“Yes, Arthur was not dumped on his lawn without reason. He and Nance were involved in something with Arthur.”
“Are you sure?”
“As sure as I can be at this point. . . . Last night, after Arthur was kidnapped and before his body was discovered, I went to the White House to brief the National Security Council. When I told them that Arthur had been abducted, Garret became noticeably agitated. So much so that I had to stop in midsentence and ask him if he knew Arthur personally. Garret said no . . . that he had only heard of him through Mike Nance.” Stansfield frowned. “You know as well as I do, Stu Garret doesn’t show concern for anyone unless he stands to lose something. Later, when I told them that Arthur’s body had been discovered on Garret’s lawn, he almost had a nervous breakdown.”
“Did he admit to any involvement with Higgins?”
“No, he still denied it.”
“What did Nance say?”
“He wasn’t at the meeting. He was tied up somewhere else. I left the White House a little more than suspicious. Garret was hiding something, and my suspicion was soon backed up by two disturbing facts. Arthur’s autopsy revealed sodium pentothal in his blood. He was interrogated, but whoever did it must have only wanted a specific piece of information; there wouldn’t have been time for more. We also have a surveillance video from Arthur’s security room with Garret and Nance on it. They visited him last Saturday, and Nance also came alone on Thursday—which means Garret lied to me about not knowing Arthur.”
“So what role would you like me to play?”
“I need you to threaten a full-scale investigation. We’ll give them two options. They can either sit down with my people and tell them everything they know under the protection of the national secrecy act, or they can give a deposition to you and your agents and risk prosecution.”
Roach thought about it for a minute. “As you said earlier, this case is under the jurisdiction of the FBI. What if at some point I decide to pursue the investigation regardless of any deal you may have struck with Nance and Garret?”
“That’s entirely up to you.”
Stu Garret paced frantically behind his desk with a cigarette in hand. Mike Nance sat stiff and upright on the couch. He’d been watching Garret for the last ten minutes, waiting for the Valium to kick in, straining to control the urge to bash Garret over the head with a lamp. He had to stay calm . . . above everything he had to stay calm.
Garret stopped and pointed his cigarette at Nance. “I can’t believe I let you talk me into this. I must have been out of my fucking mind when I agreed to get into bed with Arthur.”
Nance bit down on his lip and said, “Stu, do you think your emotional tirades are doing us any good?”
“Hey, don’t give me that cool-as-ice attitude. You deal with it your way, and I’ll deal with it my way. . . . Fuck!” Garret took a vacuumlike pull off his cigarette and his face turned bright red.
Nance stood abruptly and raised his voice. “All right, I’ll do things your way! Sit down and shut up! We have a meeting with Stansfield in ten minutes, and we are going to have to come up with some answers as to why Arthur’s body ended up on your lawn . . . and if you don’t get control of your emotions , Stansfield will tear you to shreds!” Nance stared hard at Garret.
Garret exhaled and his shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry, Mike, I just can’t believe all of this is happening so fast. What in the hell are we going to do? Stansfield is going to want to know why Arthur was found at my house. He knows I was lying to him last night when I told him I’d never met Arthur. What in the fuck am I going to tell him? What am I going to tell the press? What am I going to tell the cops? They’re gonna want to talk to me, too.”
Nance put a hand on his shoulder. “Stu, one problem at a time. Don’t worry about the cops and don’t worry about the press. For the next hour, I need you to stay calm and keep your mouth shut. Stansfield is our main problem. Now just sit down and relax while I tell you what we’re going to do.”
Garret sank into the couch and stuck a cigarette in his mouth.
Nance paced slowly across the room. “I have a good idea for damage control.” With his hands on his hips, he turned and said, “We tell Stansfield the truth.”
Garret blurted out a loud cackle. “Have you lost your fucking mind! . . . Yeah . . . sure . . . let’s tell him the truth . . .”
Nance stuck his finger in Garret’s face. “Stu, this is the last time I’m going to tell you to stay quiet and get control of yourself. Don’t forget, Arthur put a price tag on your head before he was killed, and I’m the only one who can rescind the order.” Nance stared as hard and as deep as he could into Garret’s eyes, making sure there was no doubt that he was serious. Garret tried to speak, but Nance cut him off. “Shut up, Stu. Just shut up for the next five minutes!”
Garret bit down on his tongue and nodded.
“We are going to tell Stansfield about our recruitment of Arthur to help get the president’s budget passed. We’ll tell him that Arthur helped blackmail Congressman Moore. It is simple, it is the truth, and Stansfield will buy it because we can prove it. We admit to some wrongdoing and Stansfield goes away satisfied.”
“What about the press? I can’t tell them that.”
“Stu, I’m not going to say it again! We are talking about Stansfield right now! We’ll talk about the press later.”
“Should we tell Jim?”
“No! That way he’ll have complete deniability. We can tell him after the meeting that we wanted to protect him. Just let me do the talking, and whatever you do, don’t lose your cool.”
Nance finished filling Garret in on the plan, and when he was done, they went down to the Situation Room. Nance stopped when he entered the room and looked for Stansfield. He wasn’t there yet, but the Joint Chiefs, the secretary of state, and the secretary of defense were. Nance quickly realized they could not be present when he gave Stansfield their excuse.
Nance walked to the far end of the room where the president was sitting and whispered into his ear, “Sir, for reasons I can’t discuss right now, I need you to excuse the Joint Chiefs, the secretary of defense, and the secretary of state from the meeting.”
“Won’t that look rather unusual?”
“Please, trust me, sir. We need to talk to Director Stansfield alone. . . . It’s for the best. I’ll explain later.”
Stevens hesitated for a second and then looked at Garret and made the connection. Clearing his throat, he said, “Gentlemen, there has been a slight change of plans. I am going to need to talk to Director Stansfield alone. If the rest of you could wait for us in the Cabinet Room, we’ll join you just as soon as possible.”
The generals and admirals all stood and gave Garret a look as they headed for the door. They all knew who Arthur Higgins was and wa
nted to know why he had been found dead on the chief of staff’s lawn. They continued out the door, and Nance closed it behind them.
Stevens asked, “Are you two going to tell me what in the hell is going on?”
“Mr. President, sir . . . I think it would be best if we waited for Director Stansfield to get here,” replied Nance in his cool and detached voice.
“Why?”
“You are going to want complete deniability on this one, sir.”
Stevens frowned. “What in the hell have you two been up to?” The president looked to Garret for the answer, but Nance gave it.
“Sir, this will not affect your presidency. You are just going to have to trust me that it will be best if you look surprised when we tell Director Stansfield what our connection with Arthur was.”
38
MICHAEL SAT ABOVE THE REST OF THE MORNING traffic as he rolled through downtown D.C. in his forest green Chevy Tahoe. He was tired and nervous. His nerves were shot from a lack of sleep and too much coffee, not to mention the little excursion involving Arthur. When he was about four blocks away from the Hoover Building, he dialed the phone number for the main switchboard. After several rings a woman with a pleasant voice answered.
