Term Limits mr-1

by Vince Flynn

  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 Lortch. “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.” Lortch 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

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  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.”

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  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.

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  “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.”

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  “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.

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  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. McMahon was not happy with the ludicrous and senseless restriction. It drove him nuts watching the huge amounts of energy and time that was wasted on worrying about the media and public opinion. He couldn’t run an investigation if his people didn’t know what was going on. After he’d gotten away with putting Garret in his place, he’d decided not to press his luck. The

  President was obviously not in the mood to be challenged, so he shut his mouth with the hope that Roach could get the President to loosen up later. All the way to the Pentagon, McMahon was trying to figure out how he could leave Kennedy and General Heaney out of the loop. He couldn’t. He needed their minds. They gave him insight into an area that he knew little about, and this morning’s phone call was a valuable piece of the puzzle.

  Skip entered the conference room just before noon and was slightly surprised. The last time he’d seen the room it was neat and orderly.

  Now it had stacks of folders piled everywhere, and the blackboard was covered with writing. Kennedy looked tired and worn, but the general was clean shaven and looking the perfect Marine. “You two look like you got some work done.”

  “We’ve been up all night pounding through these files.”

  Kennedy stretched her hands over her head and yawned. McMahon nodded.

  “Fill me in on what you’ve done.” Kennedy took off her glasses and stood.

  “Down at the far end of the table are all of the Delta Force files, in the middle are the

  Green Berets, and down here are the two Navy SEAL files. We took the description of the black assassin that killed Downs and tried to match it with the former black commandos. First, we separated them by height and skin color. If they were too short or their skin color was too light, we put them in a pile marked ‘not probable.”

  From there, we sorted them by current address, our rationale being that the commandos would need to live in the D.C. metro area to have an alibi. If we go talk to one of these guys who lives out in L.A. and find out that they’ve been out of town for the last two weeks, it’s going to look a little fishy. The commandos that fit the description of the assassin, but don’t live in the D.C. area, are in piles marked ‘possible’.” And the commandos who fit the description of the assassin and live in town are in the piles marked ‘probable.”” McMahon nodded.

  “Sounds good. What’s the next step?”

  “Well, we’re all in agreement that to conduct an operation of this nature you would need a minimum of four commandos, and they would have to know each other pretty well. As the general said earlier, you don’t do something like this unless you trust the

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  people on your team. That led us to the conclusion that it is highly likely these commandos served together when they were in the military.

  The odds are this group is composed of all former Delta Force commandos, Green

  Berets, or SEALS, not a mix of the three. Knowing that, we are going through the personnel files for every former commando and looking for men that served in the same units with the black commandos that are in the probable stacks.”

  “When will we have the list?”

  “The general is running a sort on their computer. We should have a list by… When do you think it’ll be done, General?”

  “Hopefully sometime around seventeen hundred.”

  “Then what’s the plan?” asked McMahon. “That’s what you and I need to talk about.

  You have to decide if you want to go knocking on doors and question these guys personally, or if you want to put them under surveillance and watch them.”

  “How many suspects are we talking about?”

  “There are fourteen former black commandos who live in the metro area and fit the description of the assassin that killed Downs.” McMahon did the math. “That’s going to take a lot of agents to run twenty-four-hour surveillance on fourteen people. What about the other commandos that are going to come up on the general’s list?”

  “What I think we should do is have you get solid surveillance set up on the fourteen former black commandos and let the Agency handle the other names that come up on the general’s list. When all of your agents are in place, and all of my surveillance people are in place, then you can start beating the bush.” McMahon nodded. “And then we sit back and watch who talks to whom.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Do you have enough people to run that many surveillance teams?” asked McMahon.

  “We have to be talking about at least fifty suspects.”

  “We have enough assets,” Kennedy said with a slight smirk on her face.

  “Seriously?”

  “We conduct our surveillance a little differently than you do.”

  McMahon shook his head and said, “I don’t even want to know what you’re going to do.” He looked to Gen
eral Heaney. “I’m going to need the complete dossiers of the

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  fourteen guys on the probable list. I would also like the names of their commanding officers while they were in the service.”

  Turning back to Kennedy, McMahon asked, “How long will it take you to get your people in place?”

  “Depending on how many names come up, we should have everything ready to go by

  Friday morning.”

  “I’ll call Brian and get everything rolling on my end, and, Irene, you do …”

  McMahon waved his hand in the air. “I don’t want to know what you’re doing. Just please be careful and don’t end up on the front page of the Post.”

  THE SMALL CESSNA FLEW ALONG THE SOUTHEAST RIDGE OF THE

  APPALACHIAN Mountain Range. Autumn colors painted the mountains beneath.

  Dotted among the rich reds, oranges, and yellows, tall Georgia pines jutted into the sky. Not a cloud was in sight, and the sun added an extra intensity to the full mix of colors below. They passed over a mountaintop, and a town farther up the valley came into sight. Seamus pointed and said, “There she is.” Brasstown, Georgia, was a small town about one and a half hours north of Atlanta that was nestled in a valley at the southern end of the Appalachians. From the far end of the valley they could barely make out two church steeples and a water tower that broke above the trees. As they neared, other buildings and streets became visible. “The airstrip is out on the southern end of town,” said Seamus, who banked the plane farther to the southeast and came in for a sweeping pass. The airstrip was cut right out of the tree line. Passing over it, Seamus took note of the direction the bright orange wind sock was pointing and came back around for a landing. He lined up his approach with a slight allowance for the crosswind and came in low above the trees. When he reached the clearing, he throttled back and let the plane float down onto the grass strip. She bounced once and then settled in, rolling to the end of the runway. An old, rusty fuel pump was the only structure in sight, and next to it was a Dodge pickup. Leaning against the hood was a man in boots, jeans, a red-and-black flannel shirt, and green John Deere hat.