Term Limits

by Vince Flynn

  Duke made the turn up the steps to Michael’s house, and Liz followed with an outstretched arm. She fished for her keys and, after finding the right one, opened the door. Duke ran inside, and Liz let go of the leash. She could take it off after she got rid of the groceries. She turned on the light and went to set the groceries down but froze. The table she wanted to set them on was lying on the floor in a half dozen pieces. Liz called out Michael’s name. She listened intently for a reply, then yelled his name louder. Duke came back down the hallway and rubbed his neck against her leg. Scarlatti reached down and patted his head. She set the groceries on the floor and headed for the stairs, calling Michael’s name again. Her heart began to quicken, and she called for Duke to follow.

  Once upstairs, she inspected the steam-streaked mirror in the bathroom and then checked the den before heading back downstairs, all the time calling Michael’s name more frantically. She flew down the stairs to the basement and threw open the door to the garage. His truck was there. She turned and sprinted back up the stairs to the kitchen and checked to see if his keys were on the hook—they were. Scarlatti bit her lip while she thought of all the things Michael had just told her. She couldn’t help but think the worst. I was only gone for thirty minutes, she thought to herself. She took a deep breath and tried to think of where he could be, but her mind kept coming back to the broken table in the front hallway.

  Her hand sprang for the phone on the kitchen wall, but she stopped short. “Should I call the police?” she asked out loud. She willed herself to calm down and not overreact. “I’ll call Tim. Maybe Tim and Seamus stopped by, and they went to pick me up at the store.” Scarlatti quickly punched in Tim’s phone number, and after several rings Michael’s brother answered.

  “Tim, this is Liz. Do you know where Michael is?”

  Tim paused for a second. “I think he’s at his house.”

  “No, he isn’t.” Liz’s voice grew more frantic. “I’m here right now!” She spoke at a rapid pace. “I came by an hour ago, and he was napping. I got him up, and he got in the shower while I went to the store. I just got back, and he’s nowhere in the house . . . and that little table by the front door is smashed . . . like someone fell on it. . . . Something isn’t right, Tim.”

  “Calm down, Liz. Is his truck gone?”

  “No! His truck is here . . . his keys are here . . . I was only gone for a half hour. He knew I was coming right back. Something bad has happened. I’m calling the police!”

  “No!” yelled Tim. “Seamus and I will be over in less than five minutes. Try to stay calm, and don’t call the police until we get there.”

  Liz hung up the phone and paced. She asked herself, who would take him and why? Could it be Coleman? No. . . . What about Stansfield? Michael had said it himself. If the story were to get out, the CIA would be shut down immediately. Liz looked at the phone again and hesitated for only a second. She called information, got the general number for the CIA, and hit the connect button. A man answered on the third ring and Liz said, “Director Stansfield, please.”

  The operator remained professional despite the fact that someone was calling the Agency’s general number on a Saturday evening and asking to talk to the director. “The director isn’t in right now. May I take a message?”

  “Yes. I assume you have a way to get ahold of him in an emergency?”

  There was a pause, then a hesitant, “Yes, if the message warrants it.”

  “Believe me it does! Tell him Liz Scarlatti from the Washington Reader wants to talk about the events surrounding Arthur Higgins, Mike Nance, Stu Garret, and Congressman Michael O’Rourke. Give him that message immediately, and have him call me back at the following number in the next five minutes, or I’m going to press with what I have.” Liz gave the man Michael’s number and hung up.

  The day had been long, and it was time to go home and get some sleep. Kennedy and Stansfield exited the director’s office, and the door automatically locked behind them. Stansfield transferred his briefcase from his right hand to his left and went to shake Kennedy’s hand. Before he could complete the gesture, his bodyguard approached from behind a desk in the reception area with a deeply concerned look on his face. “Sir, I just received a strange call from our operator.” The man looked down at a piece of paper. “A Liz Scarlatti from the Washington Reader called. She would like to ask you about the relationship between Arthur Higgins, Mike Nance, Stu Garret, and Michael O’Rourke. She left a number and said if she doesn’t hear from you in five minutes, she’s going to press with what she has.”

  Stansfield’s tired shoulders slumped another several inches as he reached for the paper. Without saying a word, he turned to go back to his office and Kennedy followed. Stansfield dropped his briefcase and his jacket on the nearest chair and walked behind his desk.

  “How in the hell could this get out so fast?” asked Kennedy.

  Stansfield shook his head. “It’s either O’Rourke or the White House.” He set the piece of paper down and pointed to a second phone on the credenza. “If you would please, Irene. Call down to Charlie and have him run a trace on this call.” Stansfield began dialing the number.

  The startling ring of the phone caused Liz to jump. She snatched the phone off the wall and said, “Hello.”

  “Miss Scarlatti?” asked Stansfield.

  “Yes, this is she.”

  “This is Director Stansfield. I just received your message, and I’m a little confused.”

  Liz clutched the phone tightly and tried to stay calm. “I know everything. I know all about how Higgins and Nance and Garret were behind the—”

  Stansfield cut her off. “We don’t need to get into specifics, Miss Scarlatti. Where are you calling from?” Stansfield had no desire to discuss this issue on an open line.

  “What does that matter?” Liz heard a click at the front door and her heart leapt. She looked down the hall hoping to see Michael, but instead Tim and Seamus came through the door.

  “I need to know if you’re on a secure line,” said Stansfield.

  Liz looked at the phone and said, “I doubt it, and I really don’t care.” Tim and Seamus entered the kitchen and listened to Liz talk. “Congressman Michael O’Rourke is missing from his house, and if he isn’t returned within the next hour, I am going to wire every news service on the planet the real story about what has been going on in Washington over the last week.”

  Seamus’s eyes opened wide. “Who are you talking to?”

  Liz turned her back on Seamus and Tim and covered her other ear.

  “Hold on a minute,” continued Stansfield. “How do you know Congressman O’Rourke is missing?”

  “I’m standing in his kitchen with his brother and grandfather,” shouted Liz. “He is gone, and if you don’t return him within the hour, your little secret is going to be on the front page of every paper tomorrow morning.”

  “I have no idea where Congressman O’Rourke is,” protested Stansfield.

  “Well, you’d better find him. You have one hour.” Liz slammed the phone back into its cradle.

  Stansfield stared at the receiver and shook his head. Kennedy pressed a button and spoke briefly into the phone. When she was done, she looked at her boss and said, “The call was made from O’Rourke’s house.”

  Stansfield pinched the bridge of his nose. “It has to be Nance and Garret.” Stansfield slowly shook his head from side to side as he continued to keep pressure on his nose. “What in the hell are those two idiots up to?”

  “Any chance the call was a fake?” asked Kennedy.

  “I doubt it.” Stansfield looked at Kennedy and grabbed his phone. “I’m going to call the president and find out if he knows where his chief of staff and national security adviser are.” Stansfield punched in the number for the Secret Service command post at the White House. After several rings an agent answered and Stansfield identified himself. “I need to speak to the president immediately.” Stansfield tapped a pen on a pad of paper while he waited to be co
nnected.

  After several clicks the president answered. “Thomas, what’s wrong?”

  “We seem to have a problem, sir.” Stansfield relayed the pertinent facts of his conversation with Scarlatti, but referred to her only as a reporter.

  The president let out a loud sigh and said, “For Christ sake . . . why would anyone want to take O’Rourke?” Stansfield did not respond. He instead chose to put the pressure on the president and see just how genuine his reaction was. “I can’t believe this. I thought this mess was over. Who would take him?” repeated an exasperated Stevens.

  “We’re not sure.”

  “Thomas, you have my authority to do whatever it takes to get Congressman O’Rourke back, and make sure that tape isn’t released!”

  Stansfield paused for a moment and then asked, “Sir, do you know where your national security adviser and chief of staff are?”

  President Stevens didn’t answer immediately. The connection between O’Rourke’s disappearance and Stansfield’s question was obvious. “No, but I’m sure as hell going to find out! I’ll call you back!” The president slammed the phone down and screamed for the nearest Secret Service agent.

  Stansfield put the phone down and tried to gauge the president’s reaction. Stevens seemed genuinely surprised, and there was no need for him to take a chance . . . unless Nance had threatened to drag him down. Stansfield pondered the possibility and decided that until he knew more, he couldn’t trust the president. He picked up the phone and dialed Charlie Dobbs’s extension in the Operations Center. Dobbs answered on the first ring, and Stansfield spoke rapidly. “What type of bird do we have over the city right now?”

  Dobbs hit several buttons on the keyboard to his left, and instantly a map appeared on the screen that marked the orbital path and location of every satellite in the CIA, the National Reconnaissance Office, and the National Security Agency arsenal. “We currently have”—Dobbs squinted to read the designation that appeared next to the dot hovering above Washington, D.C.—“a KH-11 on station.” The KH-11 Strategic Response Reconnaissance Satellite could tell the difference between a football and a basketball from a distance of 220 miles above the earth.

  “Zoom it in on Mike Nance’s ranch in Maryland, and punch up all the addresses for NSA safe houses in the metro area.”

  “Thomas, the people over at the NSA are going to shit when they find out we’re using a big bird to keep an eye on the president’s national security adviser.”

  “If they ask, tell them the president authorized it. How long before you have real-time imaging?”

  “It should take no more than three to five minutes.”

  “Good. I also want two tactical teams ready to roll ASAP. Get the choppers warmed up. We might have to move fast.”

  “Do you want them in combat gear or plainclothes?”

  Stansfield pondered the question. Because the CIA had no domestic jurisdiction, they weren’t able to deploy their tactical teams in the same fashion that the FBI deployed their SWAT teams. Most of their work had to be done in a way that raised the least amount of attention possible. “Put one team in plainclothes and the other one in full combat gear.”

  “I’ll take care of it. What’s going on, Thomas?”

  “More fallout from Arthur. Call me as soon as you get the imaging of Nance’s ranch.”

  Stansfield put the phone down, no longer tired. The anger that he felt toward Mike Nance had overwhelmed any feelings of exhaustion he had. Nance had been given more than enough chances. If he wanted to continue to play it rough and risky, it was time to end the game—before he could do any more damage.

  When Liz got off the phone, Seamus forced her to calm down and tell them what had happened. After she was done, they inspected the broken table. Given the evidence, they had to agree with Liz that things did not look good. Seamus looked at the broken table and then at Liz. “Michael told you everything?”

  “Yes.”

  Seamus tried to read deeper into her curt answer. He could sense nothing—no judgment, or animosity. Seamus folded his arms and returned his thoughts to Michael. “I don’t think it’s the CIA, or the FBI. They were with him this afternoon. They could have done it then if they wanted to.”

  “What if they wanted to wait until it was dark?” asked Liz.

  Seamus shook his head. “Why take the risk? They could have called him tomorrow and had him come out to Langley on his own. They didn’t need to forcibly take him and raise suspicion. If you had called the cops and told them your boyfriend, who just happens to be a congressman, was missing and it looked like he was taken . . .” Seamus rolled his eyes. “Every law enforcement officer in D.C. would be looking for him. No way.” Seamus shook his head. “Stansfield wouldn’t risk that exposure. Plus you have to factor in the threat of the tape being released. It has to be Nance and Garret.”

  Tim thought about it for a moment. “You’re right. Something this desperate points towards them. Now the question is, where would they have taken him?”

  Seamus shrugged his shoulders. “Hell, I have no idea. Nance has to have access to at least a dozen safe houses in the metro area. They could have taken him anywhere.” Seamus looked at his watch. “We don’t have a lot of time. We have to get him back before Nance has the chance to interrogate him. I’m going to let Coleman know what’s going on. Tim, you stay here with Liz. I’ll call you as soon as I find something out.” He grabbed Liz by the shoulders and said, “Don’t worry, everything will be all right. If Stansfield calls, call me immediately on the car phone.” The gray-haired O’Rourke turned and left.

  Seamus jumped behind the wheel of Tim’s Cherokee and pulled out into the street. When he was several blocks away, he turned on the mobile scramble phone. He gripped the steering wheel tightly as he turned onto Wisconsin Avenue. Seamus knew he needed to act fast or they might never get Michael back. Nance had already proved that he would kill, and if he was willing to risk everything in the face of the tape’s being released, there was no telling what lengths he might go to. Seamus tried to think ahead. How in the hell could they get Michael back?

  Whatever had happened, he needed to let Coleman know that Michael was missing. Seamus punched in the number for Coleman’s pager. It rang four times and then the computerized voice told him to leave a number at the beep. Seamus entered the number for his scramble phone and followed it with three more numbers. In their months of planning, Seamus had been insistent that he and Coleman maintain secure lines of communication. They had gone through almost every possible contingency, and the one they had prepared for the most was the possibility that one or more of the group would be put under surveillance. They had designed a system where they would alert each other through digital pagers. After all, Seamus couldn’t just call Coleman with the FBI camped out on his front step.

  After hanging up the phone Seamus swore under his breath. The possibility of losing Michael was more than he could bear. He forced himself to push the thought out of his mind. Now was not the time to get emotional. It was time to stay focused and find Michael. He silently chided himself for putting his grandson in harm’s way. They had boxed Nance into a corner, and instead of calling it quits, he had come out swinging.

  42

  SCOTT COLEMAN WAS SITTING ON HIS COUCH trying to ignore that an unknown number of FBI agents were watching and listening to his every move. For the last day he had been going over different plans for losing his watchers. Part of his training as a SEAL had been countersurveillance and aversive techniques. As the commander of SEAL Team Six he had been tailed more times than he could count. Foreign intelligence services could learn a lot by keeping tabs on America’s top commando.

  An even more dangerous scenario that he faced was the threat of reprisals by terrorists. Coleman had killed his fair share of international outlaws over the last decade, and plenty of groups out there would love to get their hands on him. What better way to settle a score, if you’re a terrorist, than to kill the leader of America’s elite co
unterterrorist force? Even now that he was retired, things hadn’t changed all that much. He was still under specific instructions to report any surveillance to the counterespionage people at the Naval Investigative Services.

  Coleman’s pager started to vibrate. He glanced down at the small screen and recognized the number for Seamus’s secure phone. After the seven-digit number came three more numbers. These three numbers made Coleman deeply concerned. They told him that something was very wrong, and that they needed to talk immediately.

  Coleman sat motionless for a half a minute or so while he pondered what his next step would be. After picking a plan, he turned off the TV and headed for the door, grabbing his keys and a dark leather jacket on the way. As he made the trip to the basement, he began guessing what might have gone wrong. He knew of Michael’s intention to use the tape, but beyond that he had no idea what had transpired over the last sixteen hours. Coleman reached the storage lockers in the basement and walked past his own, stopping at the one used by the elderly gentleman on the first floor. He pulled out a small black flashlight and inspected the wax seals that he had dripped onto the hinges. Both were intact.