Term Limits mr-1

by Vince Flynn

  The body can be found by the fence on the north side of the house. The address is 469

  Burning Tree Lane.”

  “Who is this?” asked an eager voice.

  “How do I know this isn’t a prank?”

  “You don’t, but you’d better get one of your news crews out there as quick as you can, because I’m calling the other two networks right now.”

  Michael pushed a button ending the call and immediately dialed the next number. The next two calls went about the same as the first. The more Michael thought about it, the more he knew the news directors couldn’t resist investigating. A dead former CIA

  employee found on the property of the President’s chief of staff would make for juicy news. The only catch was that the news crews had to get there before the Secret Service found the body. As they neared Georgetown, Michael said, “Things are going to get really hairy. This might be our last chance to talk for a while. If the FBI is on your tail, call my pager and punch in nine seven times.”

  “What are you going to do with the tape?”

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  “I’m not sure. I’ll figure something out. Pull over up here.”

  Coleman pulled over and offered his hand. Michael took it and said, “Lay low until things cool down.” Michael slammed the door, and the car sped off.

  The secretary of defense and the secretary of state were also attending the state dinner. So as to not raise too much attention, they left the room in intervals, the President being the last. When Stevens arrived in the Situation Room, Director Stansfield was on the phone and the secretaries of state and defense were standing off to the side talking to

  Garret. The President approached his chief of staff. “Stu, what’s this all about?”

  “Stansfield says a high-level CIA official has been abducted.”

  “How high?”

  “I don’t know, he hasn’t told us. He’s been waiting for you.” The thought of Arthur being the official in mind was something that Garret hadn’t considered. Arthur was, after all, a former CIA employee and lived in the United States. Garret assumed the CIA

  employee in question must be someone stationed abroad.

  Stansfield hung up the phone and approached the group. “Good evening, Mr.

  President. I’m sorry to interrupt your party, but something very serious has come up.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “The Agency’s former director of Black Ops, Arthur Higgins, was abducted from his home in Maryland at seven oh six this evening.”

  Garret’s cocky attitude vanished instantly. His mouth fell open, and his face turned white. Stansfield noticed the change in the Chief of Staffs demeanor and focused in on him while he continued. “Right now we have no idea who has taken him or why, but we have to assume the worst if we don’t get him back soon. Higgins is in possession of a vast amount of highly sensitive information. If he is interrogated, our intelligence apparatus will be affected on a global scale.”

  Garret’s reaction was so out of character that Stansfield paused for a second and then asked, “Mr. Garret, I didn’t know you knew Arthur.”

  Garret stammered briefly and said, “I . .

  . didn’t. I’ve.just heard his name mentioned before.” Stansfield crossed his arms. He knew Mike Nance and Arthur had a professional relationship, but he found it hard to believe that Nance would talk to Garret about Arthur. “What have you heard about him?”

  “Nothing really, I just know he used to work for the Agency.”

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  Stansfield stared suspiciously at Garret. It was obvious that he was lying. Garret was acting far too strange over something that shouldn’t affect him.

  Instead of speaking, Stansfield let the silence build, increasing the tension and turning everyone’s focus on Garret.

  “Do we have any idea who would have taken him?” asked the President.

  Without looking away from Garret, Stansfield answered, “My people are putting together a list right now. Arthur has been retired from the Agency for almost two years, but he has continued to use his international contacts to conduct quasi-legitimate business endeavors.

  We have kept tabs on him and even warned him several times to keep his nose out of official Agency matters.”

  “What are we doing to get him back?” asked the President. “We have contingency plans in place for something like this. We’ve faxed photos of Arthur to all of the airports and police departments on the Eastern Seaboard. We are telling people that he is wanted for questioning in a murder and that he is to be approached with extreme caution. The Air

  Force had an AWAC on patrol when he was kidnapped and they have launched another.

  They are looking for any small-plane traffic that may be trying to fly under our conventional radar systems. As time elapses, we will alert our people overseas and have them meet incoming flights from the U.S.” The phone that Stansfield had been talking to

  Charlie Dobbs on earlier started to ring. Stansfield excused himself and grabbed it.

  “Hello.”

  “Thomas, we found him,” exclaimed Dobbs. Stansfield breathed a huge sigh of relief and asked, “Where?”

  “You’re not going to believe this. He’s at Stu Garret’s house.”

  “What?”

  “He’s dead. I’m watching it on the damn news.

  His body is propped up against Garret’s fence. All three networks are at the scene filming live. The cops aren’t even there yet.”

  “How did they get there so fast?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “Do we have our people on the way?”

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  “Yes.” Stansfield’s mind raced to try to make a connection between Arthur and

  Garret. “Charlie, hold the line for a minute.” Stansfield lowered the phone to his side and looked at the group. “We found him.”

  Stansfield paused to read Garret’s reaction and then said, “He’s dead.”

  Garret looked like a murderer who had just received a not-guilty verdict from a jury.

  He exhaled deeply and asked, “Where?”

  “At your house.” The look of panic and fear returned to Garret’s face instantly.

  “What?”

  “The media is at your house right now broadcasting the entire story.”

  “At my house?”

  “Yes.” Stansfield studied the frazzled Garret and asked, “Why would someone dump

  Arthur’s body on your lawn?” While Garret stumbled for an answer, the President grabbed the master remote and turned on the entire bank of television sets. Garret responded to Stansfield’s question with wide eyes. “I have no idea … absolutely no idea.”

  Cocking his head in a doubtful manner, Stansfield said, “I’m afraid you’re going to have to do better than that.” Garret shook his head emphatically. “I don’t know. I really don’t even know the guy.”

  Stansfield looked at him pensively. There was no doubt Garret was hiding something.

  Stansfield brought the phone back to his mouth.

  “Charlie, I’ll be there in about thirty minutes. I want a complete update as soon as I

  land.” Stansfield hung up the phone and checked his watch. He thought about asking

  Garret to come with him so his people could debrief him but knew Garret would never go for it.

  Besides, he needed to do some checking first. Stansfield looked over at the President, who was staring aghast at the TVS. “Sir, this is a potentially embarrassing situation for you, but all in all we are very lucky. Whoever took Arthur didn’t have enough time to interrogate him, so it looks hopeful that we haven’t been compromised in any way. I have to get back to Langley and start working on damage control. Our allies are going to want some answers. I will call you as soon as I find anything out, otherwise I think we should plan on meeting in the morning.”

  “That sounds like a good plan,” responded a confused President Stevens.

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  St
ansfield gave Garret one more questioning look and left. As soon as he was out the door, Stevens pulled Garret aside and said, “Stu, what in the hell is going on?”

  Garret shook his head sideways and asked himself where in the hell Mike Nance was.

  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.

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  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 counter surveillance 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

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  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 assum
e 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

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  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 mid-sentence and ask him if he knew Arthur personally.

  Garret said no … that he had only heard of him through Mike Nance.”