by Vince Flynn
Michael’s street. They stopped in front of Michael’s house and O’Rourke jumped out.
Flipping up the black cover on the security pad, he punched in the code for the garage door and it opened. Coleman backed the car into the tight garage, and Michael followed, closing the door behind him. At first they were going to bring Arthur to the cabin, but since it was only fourteen miles from the estate, they thought it would be best to bring him back to the city where they could use the busy traffic and people for cover. Before opening the trunk, Michael and Coleman pulled their mesh masks down over their faces.
Coleman inserted the key into the lock and pushed in. The trunk opened, revealing the bony white body of Arthur. His eyes were glassy and his wrists and ankles tied together with rope. A blue racquetball was shoved in his mouth. Michael dug the ball out and
Arthur moved his jaw. With a deep look of confusion he stared up at the two dark figures.
Michael almost felt sorry for Arthur and then remembered who he was. Coleman grabbed him under the armpits and Michael grabbed his ankles. Together they hoisted him out of the trunk and brought him into the house. The ground level of O’Rourke’s brownstone consisted of a single-car garage on one side and a utility and washroom on the other.
They brought Arthur to the corner of the washroom and set him on the floor with his back against the wall. Coleman went out to the car and came back with a small black case. He set it on top of the dryer and opened it. Inside were two clear liquid vials and several syringes.
Coleman grabbed the vial labeled sodium pentothal, tilted it upside down, and stuck the tip of a syringe through the rubber top. Pulling the plunger back, he filled the syringe about halfway. After putting the vial of truth serum back in the case, he let the bubbles rise to the top of the syringe and squeezed some of the fluid out. Arthur mumbled something, and Coleman ignored him. The chloroform was wearing off.
Coleman grabbed a stick of smelling salts and broke it open. He stuck it under
Arthur’s nose, and the pungent smell forced the old man to yank his head away. Coleman did it several more times and Arthur responded verbally. “What are you doing? …
Where am I?” Coleman ignored him and grabbed the syringe from atop the dryer. Arthur
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looked up at the needle and realized what was going on. “Before you use that, let’s talk for a second.” Coleman kneeled down and grabbed Arthur’s arm. Arthur’s eyes shot frantically back and forth between the head of the masked man and tip of the needle. “I
don’t know who’s paying you, but I’ll double it.” Coleman found a blue vein just under the surface of Arthur’s thin, dry skin. He slid the needle in and depressed the plunger. Arthur watched with a panicked look on his face. “You have no idea what you’re doing. My people will come looking for me ….
They will find you no matter what it takes!” As Arthur shouted, Coleman walked out of the room and shut the door behind him. Michael came down the stairs with a tape recorder, video camera, and a set of small speakers. He handed them to Coleman and went into the garage to grab the mobile scramble phone. When Michael got back, he asked Coleman how long it would take for the drug to take effect, and Coleman told him about another five minutes. Both of them went back into the washroom. The second they opened the door, Arthur began pleading, his voice growing more placid by the minute.
Michael and Coleman ignored him while they set up the equipment.
O’Rourke plugged the two speakers into the mobile scramble phone and attached the voice modulator to the mouthpiece of the handset. Coleman took the video camera and mounted it on top of a tripod. They did a quick test to make sure everything checked out.
Michael waved for Coleman to follow him, and they stepped out into the hallway.
“Remember, I’ll ask the questions. If you want to say something, turn off the tape recorder and camera first. If we end up using this tape, the CIA and the FBI will analyze every little noise.”
“Understood.”
“Is there any chance he’ll be able to lie to us?” asked Michael. “No, I’ve used this stuff in the field before, and you can’t fight it.”
Michael nodded and they went back into the room. Arthur sat in the corner staring up at the light in the middle of the ceiling. Coleman approached, grabbed Arthur’s jaw, looked into his heavily dilated eyes, then told Michael Arthur was ready. Coleman turned on the camera and Michael hit the record button on the tape recorder. Speaking into the modulator, Michael asked, “What is your name?”
Director Stansfield stared at the big board on the front wall of the Operations Center and noted the running time since Arthur’s personal alarm had been sounded.
They were approaching the forty-minute mark, and things were not looking good.
With each tick of the clock, the odds of getting him back got worse. They were still getting a signal from Arthur’s beacon, but the Cobra gunships had found nothing. Navy frogmen were on the way from Norfolk to find out what was beneath the water. At first they thought Arthur’s alarm might have been thrown overboard by his abductors, but the
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AWAC operator told them the bogie had stopped dead in the water. The quick-reaction team had arrived at Arthur’s estate and was assessing the situation. Only one thing was certain: Arthur was nowhere to be found.
Stansfield watched as his people in the Operations Center alerted the Coast Guard, local law enforcement agencies, airport officials, and U.S. Customs agents to be on the lookout for anything suspicious. For security reasons, they didn’t tell anyone the real reason for the alert, only that they were looking for a fugitive. They didn’t want the story ending up in the press. Stansfield knew if they were to get Arthur back at this point it would take luck, and to get lucky they had to hustle.
For every minute that expired, their chances of getting him back decreased. Stansfield also had procedure to follow. He picked up a secure line and dialed the number for the
National Security Desk at the White House. “National Security Desk, Major Maxwell speaking. Please identify yourself.”
“This is Director Stansfield of the CIA. Is the President on premise?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Alert the National Security Council and bring them in. We have a potential crisis in the making. Tell the President I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
“Yes, sir.” Stansfield hung up the phone and told his bodyguard to get the chopper warmed up. The director then turned to Dobbs. “Charlie, hopefully we’ll get him back, but we have to start preparing for the worst. Get everyone in here. I want damage assessment reports as quickly as possible. We need to know what current operations might be in jeopardy, and how many of our agents’ covers could be blown if Arthur is interrogated.”
“Do you want me to alert our friends overseas?”
“Don’t tell the embassies yet. We’ll wait another hour or so.”
“What about the Brits? Arthur did a lot of work with them.”
Stansfield hadn’t even thought of that yet. Their allies would be extremely upset.
“Hold off on that for another hour or so. I’ll have to make those calls personally. If any further developments arise, call me immediately.” Arthur answered the last question of his life.
Michael looked at Coleman in complete disbelief and hit the stop button on the tape recorder. As Michael rose, he pointed toward the door and Coleman followed. When they got into the hallway, they took off their masks and stared at each other. They could not believe what they had just heard.
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Michael spoke first, through clenched teeth. “This is unbelievable!” “It’s more than unbelievable, it’s enough to bring the whole government down. Do you know what would happen if we released this tape to the press?”
“We’ll be the bastards of the international community,” said O’Rourke.
“It’ll rip the country apart. If Watergate tarnished the presidency, this will destroy it forever.” Coleman p
ointed toward the room. “Do you want to ask any more questions?”
O’Rourke thought about it for a second and said, “No. We found out what we wanted.”
Michael looked at his watch. “The sooner we get rid of him the better.”
“I agree. Make a copy of the tape, and I’ll take care of Arthur.”
They both went back into the room. Michael grabbed the tape and went upstairs.
Coleman grabbed the empty syringe from atop the dryer and pulled the plunger back, filling it with air. Bending down, he looked into Arthur’s glassy eyes for a second, and then, with utter disdain, he stuck the needle into Arthur’s arm. Coleman depressed the plunger, sending thousands of lethal air bubbles into Arthur’s bloodstream.
Coleman had no desire to watch him die and went to the garage to find something to wrap the body in. Michael came back downstairs several minutes later and helped
Coleman wrap Arthur in green trash bags. They placed the corpse in the trunk of the
BMW and covered it with some blankets. Coleman looked at O’Rourke and asked, “What are you going to do with the tapes?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Are you thinking about releasing them to the media?”
“I’m not so sure it would be a good idea.” Coleman nodded. “I think it would set us back a hundred years.”
“I agree.”
“Well, whatever you decide to do, you’re going to have to do it without me. I don’t think you and I will be able to see each other for a while.
If you’re right about the FBI, I’m going to have to lay low.”
“I’ve been thinking about that. This tape might come in handy.”
“How?” asked Coleman. Michael shook the tape in front of Coleman’s face.
“This little confession would topple the entire government if it was released. Whether
Stevens was involved or not, he would be implicated.
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He would be willing to do almost anything to keep this from being released, and the
CIA… they stand to lose the most. If this thing went public, the entire Agency would be shut down within a week. They would do almost anything to keep it quiet.”
“Yeah, like putting a bullet in the back of our heads.”
“Not if we do it right.
Let’s talk about it in the car.”
“You’re coming with me to dump the body?” asked a surprised Coleman.
“Yeah, I know the perfect place.”
DIRECTOR STANSFIELD’S HELICOPTER FLEW UP The POTOMAC, ITS
BRIGHT spotlight shining off the dark water below. It banked to the east, passing over the Lincoln Memorial, and continued up the Mall. The strobe light fluttering near the
White House alerted the pilot to his exact landing area on the South Lawn. The small chopper came in and set down gently on the grass. Stansfield opened the door and got out, bending at the waist as he walked clear of the blades. Two Secret Service agents approached and escorted him through the Rose Garden and into the West Wing of the
White House, where they were greeted by one of Stu Garret’s aides. Stansfield started for the stairs that would take him to the Situation Room and the aide said, “Excuse me, sir. I
was told to bring you to the Oval Office.” With a look of surprise Stansfield asked, “Why?”
“I don’t know, sir. I was only told to take you to the Oval Office.”
Stansfield followed the aide down the hallway and into the empty Presidential office.
The aide left and Stansfield stood awkwardly in the middle of the room shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
As the minutes mounted, so did his blood pressure. He looked at a Secret Service agent standing watch at the door and asked, “Where is the President?”
“He’s attending a state dinner, sir.” Stansfield looked down at the floor and then back at the agent. For the first time in a long while he thought he might lose his temper. The complete lack of professionalism by the Stevens administration was wearing on him.
Instead of yelling, he turned and walked over to the President’s desk.
Picking up the phone, he told the operator to get him the National Security Desk.
Several seconds later, there was a click on the line and a voice said, “National Security
Desk, Major Maxwell speaking, please identify yourself.”
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“CIA director Stansfield. Have the members of the National Security Council been told that I’ve called an emergency meeting?”
“No, sir.”
“Why?”
“I was told to wait until you arrived, sir.”
“By whom?”
“Chief of Staff Garret, sir.” Stansfield’s voice stayed even, but gained a slight edge.
“Major, is Chief of Staff Garret in the national security chain of command?”
“No, sir.”
“Listen to me carefully.
We have a level four national security crisis on our hands. I am giving you a direct order to send out an alert immediately! I want the NSA, the SOD, the SOS, and the chairman of the Joint Chiefs here within the next ten minutes! Am I understood?”
“Yes, sir.” Stansfield hung up the phone and dialed the number for the CIA’s
Operations Center. Charlie Dobbs answered and Stansfield asked him for an update. “The divers found a boat sunk at the spot where the beacon was last marked. They also found a bag on board with Arthur’s clothes and watch …. It looks like a diversion.”
“Anything else?” Stansfield looked up from the desk as Garret strutted into the room wearing a tuxedo. Before Dobbs could answer, Stansfield said, “I have to go, Charlie. I’ll call you back.”
Stansfield hung up the phone and watched Garret approach in his black tuxedo.
Garret pulled a cigarette out of his mouth and said, “This better be good, Tom. This is the first time the President has had a chance to relax in over two weeks.”
“Where is Mike Nance?”
“He’s at home. What’s so important?” Stansfield was almost distracted by the anger he felt for Garret but forced himself to stay focused on the crisis. “A high-level CIA official has been kidnapped.”
“How high?” asked Garret as smoke billowed from his nostrils. “I’ll tell you as soon as you get the President down in the Situation Room where he should be!”
Stansfield’s frustration was becoming evident. “Hey, take it easy, Tom.
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You can’t expect us to drop everything we’re doing every time you call over here.”
Stansfield shook his head and walked toward the door.
“This is not a game, Mr. Garret. I expect to see the President down in the Situation
Room immediately!”
Coleman was back behind the wheel of the BMW and was less than excited about
Michael’s dumping spot. Originally, Coleman had planned on taking Arthur’s body out to sea. He thought they had pressed their luck enough for the evening, and Michael’s idea was far from cautious.
Michael wanted to leave Arthur’s body where it would be found-where they could send a message. Burning Tree Country Club was less than ten minutes from Michael’s house. As they neared the golf course, Coleman said for the third time, “You know, the
Secret Service will be watching his house.”
“I know. I’m not planning on leaving him at the front gate. He has a corner lot. We can leave the body around by the side. We’ll drive by the house once and check out the security.”
“You’ve been in the house before?”
“Yes. Senator Muetzel used to live there.
After Muetzel lost in the last election, Garret bought it from him.”
Michael looked over at Coleman and said, “I want to show these bastards that we’re willing to go to the media with this thing. If we end up releasing the tape, leaving
Arthur’s body at his house will give it more meaning. Besides, it’ll make Garr
et and
Nance sweat.”
“That’s true.”
They reached the ritzy neighborhood several minutes later, and Michael directed
Coleman to the house. It was a large Tudor with a wrought-iron fence that ran around the entire yard. They drove slowly past the front gate, where a Ford sedan was parked across the driveway.
Two men were sitting in the front seat and one camera was over the gate. Coleman took a left at the end of the property and turned down the next street. On this side of the house the fence was lined with trees and bushes. “What do you think?” asked Michael. “I
think it’s doable.” Coleman pulled a U-turn in the middle of the road and stopped the car on the same side of the street as Garret’s house. He turned off the lights and looked down the tree-lined side street. Michael tugged on his thin leather gloves and said, “I’m ready when you are.”
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Coleman took his foot off the brake and the car slowly rolled forward.
When they reached the back edge of the property line, Michael pulled the fuse so the dome and brake lights wouldn’t come on. Coleman told Michael to pop the trunk and he did.
While the car was still rolling, Michael jumped out and opened the trunk. He tossed the blankets to the side and scooped the dead body out of the trunk. The fence was only fifteen feet from the curb.
Michael ran the short distance and set Arthur down, propping him up against the wrought-iron bars. Yanking the green garbage bag off his head, Michael threw it on the ground and jumped back in the car.
Coleman spun the car around and sped away. Grabbing the mobile scramble phone out of the backseat, Michael punched in the phone number for the local NBC affiliate.
After several rings, someone answered on the other end.
“Newsroom.”
“Listen to me carefully.” Michael spoke in a slow, precise tone.
“This is not a prank. There is a dead man at Stu Garret’s house.
The man’s name is Arthur Higgins. He is a former employee of the CIA.
