Term Limits mr-1

by Vince Flynn

  We could ruin you in a week.” Vanelli stormed across the room and lunged for the

  Dictaphone. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

  O’Rourke’s right hand shot up and grabbed Vanelli’s outstretched hand.

  O’Rourke had practiced the judo move thousands of times while he was in the

  Marines.

  In one quick motion he twisted Vanelli’s hand until the bottom of the wrist faced the ceiling, then forced the hand back toward the elbow.

  Vanelli collapsed to his knees in pain. O’Rourke continued to exert enough force to keep him on the floor. Vanelli looked up with a pained face and screeched, “Let go of my fucking wrist, and give me that goddamn tape.” O’Rourke increased the pressure and

  Vanelli let out a squeal. “Listen to me, Vanelli. Just because you’re from Chicago and you have an Italian name doesn’t mean you’re tough. You’re an aide to a Congressman, not a hit man for the Mafia.” Vanelli picked up his right hand and reached for his bent wrist.

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  Before he was halfway there, O’Rourke slammed the wrist back another inch and

  Vanelli’s free hand shot back to the floor as he let out a scream. “Listen to me, you little punk! I don’t know who you think you are coming in here and threatening me, but if you or your scumbag boss ever bother me again, you’ll have the FBI, 60 Minutes, and every other major news organization in the country crawling up your ass. Do you understand?”

  Vanelli was slow to respond, so O’Rourke increased the pressure and repeated the question.

  “Do you understand?” Vanelli shook his head yes and started to whimper.

  O’Rourke set the tape recorder on his desk, dropped to one knee, and grabbed Vanelli by the chin. He stared into his eyes and in a firm, precise voice said, “If you ever screw with me again, I’ll do a hell of a lot more than twist your wrist.”

  Garret came bursting into the Oval Office. He’d been running back and forth between his office and the President’s all morning, sneaking puffs of cigarettes and screaming into his phone. He strutted across the room to where the President and Dickson were sitting.

  “I’ve got great news; Moore is on board.” The President punched his fist into the air, and all three men let out a yell. “Jim, I think we should postpone the press conference until one P.M.”

  “Stu, you know I hate postponing those things. It’s just going to make us look like we’re unorganized.” Garret grabbed a fresh piece of paper and leaned over the table. He wrote the number 209 in the upper left-hand corner and 216 in the upper right. “We were at two hundred and nine votes versus two hundred sixteen this morning. Since then we’ve picked up Moore, Reiling, and one of those hicks. They were all undecided, and we got

  Dreyer and Hampton to defect. That’s minus two for them and plus five for us. That puts us at two hundred fourteen apiece.”

  Garret stood up and screamed, “God, I love this tension. We’re going to win this damn thing.” The President and Dickson smiled. “I see where you’re headed with this, Stu,” said the President. “You would like to turn this thing into a little victory announcement.”

  “Exactly. If we can wait until one, I think Jack and Tom can pick up enough votes to give us a little breathing room. Tom’s office has already leaked that Moore settled. The rest of the gamblers will be making their deals as soon as possible.” The President looked up at Garret with a smile and conceded.

  “Stu, do what you have to do to move it from twelve to one o’clock, but try to be gentle with Ms. Moncur.” Garret nodded, then headed off to get the job done. He would be about as gentle with Ann Moncur as a five-year-old boy is with his three-year-old baby brother. He was in one of his zones. Victory was just around the corner, and he

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  would do anything to win. He had no time for frail egos and overly sensitive, politically correct appointees. He was on the front line and they were nothing more than support people. It was always amazing to him that the people who complained the most were usually the ones who were trying to justify their jobs. The people in the trenches never complained. They just continued to produce results. Koslowski was like that. He didn’t care if it looked pretty or not, he just made sure the job got done.

  Their new ally, Arthur Higgins, was a producer. No bullshit, no complaining, only results. He made a mental note to thank Mike Nance, the national security adviser, for setting that one up. God, did he do a nice job on Frank Moore. That could be the one that put them over the top. THE PRESIDENT AND HIS ENTOURAGE WERE STANDING

  IN THE ANTEROOM located behind the White House Press Room. They could hear

  Ann Moncur explaining to the White House press corps that the President had a busy afternoon and would not be able to answer a lot of questions. Stevens was a little nervous.

  It had been almost four months since his last press conference. The honeymoon between him and the press had ended in the middle of his second year of office. During the first year and a half he could do no wrong. The press had backed him during the election, and he had in turn given them unprecedented access. The honeymoon soured when certain members of the press corps remembered that their job was to report the facts and keep the public informed.

  Several potential scandals were uncovered, but before they became full-blown stories, Stu Garret stepped in and put out the fires.

  Documents were shredded, people were paid to keep quiet or lie, and everything was emphatically denied and denounced as a ploy by the opposition to smear the President.

  When the scandals finally died, Garret laid out a new strategy for the President when it came to dealing with the press: act hurt, betrayed, and keep your distance.

  The President gladly complied with his chief of staff’s plan, and the new strategy had partially worked. Some in the press were in awe of the President and yearned for the relationship they had had with him during his first year in office, but the hardened reporters saw right through the scam. Too many documents had miraculously disappeared, and too many sources had changed their story overnight. The old guard of the press corps had been around too long to be taken in by the feigned isolation of the

  President. They were cynical, and to them, professional politicians did nothing that wasn’t calculated. If the President was isolating himself from the press, it wasn’t because his feelings were hurt. It was because he had something to hide. Garret had pulled the

  President away from the rest of the group and was reminding him which reporters he should steer clear of during the question-and-answer period. “Now, Jim, don’t forget, no more than four questions, and whatever you do, don’t recognize Ray Holtz from the Post and Shirley Thomas from the Times.” The President nodded in agreement.

  Garret grabbed him by the shoulder and started to lead him toward the stage. “I’ll be right there if anyone backs you into a corner, and remember, only four questions and then you have to go meet the new premier of Ukraine. If they whine about how short it is, just

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  smile and tell them you’re sorry, but you’ve got a full calendar and you’re already running behind.” The President smiled at Garret. “Stu, relax, I’ve done this before.” Garret smiled back. “I know, that’s what makes me nervous.” Ann Moncur was still addressing the gallery when she noticed the reporters look to her right. She glanced over and saw the

  President standing in the tiny doorway. “Good afternoon, Mr. President.

  Are you ready to take over?” The President bounded up the two small steps and walked toward the podium, extending his right hand. “Thank you, Ann.” The two shook hands, and Moncur went to join Stu Garret and Mark Dickson, who were standing against the wall. While the President organized his notes, the photographers were busy snapping shots. After a brief moment, he cleared his throat and looked up from the podium.

  With a slight smile he greeted the press corps, “Good afternoon.” The press responded in kind, and the President’s slight smile turned into a big one. Like most pol
iticians, Stevens knew how to work the crowd, and his most successful tool of all was his larger-than-life smile.

  What most of the people in the room didn’t know was that the smile had been rehearsed. Few things in this administration happened by accident. Stu Garret made sure of that. The smile had its desired effect, and the majority of the people sitting in the gallery smiled back. The President placed his thin, well-manicured hands on the edges of the podium and cleared his throat again. “I have called this press conference to announce a victory for the American people. During the past week, this administration has battled partisan politics, disinformation, gridlock, and a thirty-two vote deficit to secure the successful passage of my budget in the House of Representatives. As of noon today, we have obtained two hundred twenty votes, enough for a narrow margin of victory. “I

  would be remiss if I did not take this opportunity to thank the esteemed Speaker of the

  House, Mr. Thomas Basset, for all of the hard work he has done to ensure passage of this budget. His hard work will help put us another step closer to getting this country back on the road to a speedy economic recovery.” The President glanced down at his watch, then brought his gaze back to the reporters. “I’m sorry for being so brief, but I have an extremely busy calendar today, and I’m already running an hour behind. I have a couple of minutes to field a few brief questions.” Hands immediately shot up, and a dozen or so reporters started to shout questions. The President turned to his right and looked for the familiar face of Jim Lester, the ABC White House correspondent.

  Lester was sitting on the edge of his chair, right hand raised, obediently waiting to be called on. Stevens pointed in his direction and called his name. The rest of the reporters fell silent as Lester rose from his chair. “As of this morning, sir, it was reported that you had secured approximately two hundred ten votes. How did you pick up the remaining ten so quickly, and are any of those new votes coming from Congressman who were previously committed to voting against your budget?”

  “Well … we picked up the ten so quickly because there are a lot of people up on the

  Hill who know, despite what the opposition has been saying, that this is a good budget.

  There are a lot of people in this country who need the relief this budget will provide, and

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  there were several Congressman who, after taking a more serious look at the budget, realized it would be mean-spirited not to vote for it.” The President turned his head away from Lester, and the hands shot up immediately. He rested his gaze and forefinger on another friendly face, Lisa Williamson, the White House correspondent for the

  Associated Press.

  “Mr. President, are you worried that with such a narrow victory in the House, your budget will have a harder time getting through the Senate, where the opposition holds a much higher percentage of seats?” Stevens wasted no time responding. The question was anticipated and the answer prepared. “Not really. The American people want this budget, and our Senators know that. They will do what is right and they will pass the budget.”

  Stevens started to turn to find another reporter before he finished answering the question.

  More hands shot up, and this time the President turned to find Mick Turner from CNN.

  “Mr. President, the successful passage of this budget through the House will be a political home run for your administration. How much do you think it will improve your position when negotiating with the Japanese during next month’s trade talks?”

  “Well, the Japanese have a history of walking away from these talks in a better position than when they entered them. This is somewhat ironic when one considers the fact that they have been running an ever-increasing trade surplus with us for the last fifteen years. The trade deficit that we run with them is hurting American labor. We are putting out high-quality products and the Japanese refuse to open their markets. This trade deficit is stifling our economy from reaching its full potential, and most importantly, it is costing us American jobs.

  There is no doubt that the passage of my budget will be a signal to the Japanese that we are finally ready to reverse a trend that previous administrations let get so out of control. “I have time for one more question.” While Stevens was talking, his head swiveled to take in the whole press gallery. He noticed a stunning brunette sitting in the section usually reserved for foreign press. He decided that since voters cared little about foreign affairs, he would be safe calling on her. He pointed toward the back of the room.

  “The young lady in the back rose.”

  The President was expecting to hear a foreign accent and was somewhat shocked when she stood and spoke perfect English. “Mr. President, Liz Scarlatti from the

  Washington Reader. Congressman Michael O’Rourke from Minnesota has said that even though he thinks your budget is, quote, ‘stuffed with more pork than a Jimmy Dean sausage,’ he would still be willing to vote for it if you shut down the Rural Electrification

  Administration, an agency that is estimated to cost the American taxpayer five hundred to seven hundred million dollars a year.

  This agency was founded in 1935 for the sole purpose of bringing electricity to rural

  America …. My question is this: Mr. President, I know that the leaders of our country are very busy, but have you or anyone else in Washington noticed that all of rural America has had electricity for over twenty years? And now that you’ve been informed, what are

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  you going to do to shut down this wasteful program?” Many of the reporters in the audience started to chuckle.

  With a forced smile, the President pulled out his best, good-old-boy drawl. “Well, Ms. Scarlatti, first of all, this budget is one of the leanest budgets that any President in the last twenty years has sent to the Hill.” Eyes started to roll in the audience. The cynical members of the press were getting sick of hearing the tactless rhetoric of the President. It was cute for the first year, but they’d grown tired of it. “And second of all, I have been trying to shut down the REA ever since I took office, but the hard fact remains that if I

  killed the REA, my budget would never make it out of committee.” Before the President could continue, the fiery brunette shouted again from the back row.

  “Mr. President, don’t you think it is a harsher fact of reality that your budget is forecasting a one-hundred-billion-dollar deficit and you are still funding Federal agencies that are obsolete? Not to mention the fact that you have done nothing to control the growth of Social Security and Medicare!”

  Stu Garret could see that the President was in trouble, so he stepped forward and touched his elbow. The President turned and Garret pointed to his watch. Stevens turned back to the press and said, “People, I’m running very late. Let me finish the young lady’s question and then I’m going to have to leave …. This administration is very concerned about finding and getting rid of government waste.

  Vice President Dumont is heading up a task force right now that is vigorously searching for ways to cut government waste. This has been a major priority of my administration and will continue to be one. Thank you all very much for your time and have a good day.” The President stepped back from the podium and waved good-bye.

  Reporters continued to shout questions as Stevens walked off the stage. Once backstage, Stu Garret grabbed him by the arm and pulled him close. “What in the hell were you doing calling on someone you didn’t know?”

  “She was sitting in the foreign-press section. I called on her because I thought she would ask me a question on foreign affairs. Relax, Stu, I handled it fine.” Garret frowned deeply. “Foreign affairs, my ass.

  You were thinking of another type of affair. You know which reporters to call on if you want a question on foreign affairs. That was stupid.

  From now on, stick with the program!”

  10:40 P.M Thursday

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  THE BLUE VAN WOUND ITS WAY THROUGH THE TINY WASHINGTON, D.C neighborhood of Friendship Heights. Dark g
reen letters strewn across the side of the van read, “Johnson Brothers’ Plumbing, 24 Hour Emergency Service Available.”

  Inside were two men, both in their late twenties, both extremely fit.

  They were wearing dark blue coveralls and matching baseball hats. The van slowed down and turned into a narrow, poorly lit alley. Ten yards into the alley the van rolled to a stop and the driver pulled the gear lever up and into reverse. Pulling back out into the street, the van stopped again and then headed back in the direction from which it had just come. To anyone who may have been watching, it looked as if the plumber’s van was harmlessly searching for a house in need of its services. Back in the alley, behind a row of garbage cans, the dark-haired former passenger of the van crouched silently and observed.

  After several minutes, he stood and slowly started down the alley, going from shadow to shadow, quietly walking on the balls of his feet.

  Six houses down, he stopped behind a garage on his right. It belonged to Mr. Harold

  J. Burmiester. He grabbed a plastic bag from inside his pocket, reached over the seven-foot fence, and dumped the bag’s contents into the backyard. Huddling between the corner of the fence and the garage, he pressed the light on his digital watch.

  It was 10:44 P.M. He would have to wait another fifteen minutes to make sure the bait was taken. Burmiester felt that high-tech security systems were a waste of money.

  His was the only house on the block that did not have one, and the only house on the block that had never been burglarized. This distinction was directly attributable to a rather large German shepherd named Fritz. The unwelcome observer waited quietly in the shadows, as he had done on dozens of previous nights, waiting and watching, recording times and taking notes-always reassured by the punctuality of the retired banker. At 10:55, the backyard floodlight was turned on, and a silhouette of the fence was cast across the alley onto the neighbor’s garage. A moment later, the door opened and the tags on Fritz’s collar could be heard jingling as he bounded down the steps and across the yard. Every night at exactly 10:55, Burmiester would let Fritz out to go to the bathroom, then let him back in five minutes later, just in time for his owner to watch the nightly news. The dog ran straight to the back fence, where his master had trained him to go to the bathroom. Fritz was urinating on the fence when he started to sniff frantically.