Term Limits

“I would urge you not to waste any time. Arthur may not be done killing.”

MCMAHON WAS BACK IN THE JOINT SPECIAL OPERATIONS COMMAND’S

conference room at the Pentagon, eating a micro-waved container of lasagna that was more than a little salty. His entire afternoon had been spent meeting with Harvey Wilcox, the deputy director of the FBI’s Counterterrorism Department; Madeline Nanny, the deputy director of the FBI’s Counter Espionage Department; and Director Roach. Both departments had the equipment and personnel to run surveillance on the fourteen black former commandos who were living in the D.C. metro area. Neither Roach nor McMahon had to ask for the full cooperation of the two deputy directors. Both understood the priority of the task that had been handed to them. Nanny had more available assets, so she took nine of the fourteen dossiers and Wilcox took the other five. They estimated they could initiate surveillance during the next twenty-four hours, and depending on the individual movements of the suspects, they could have airtight surveillance established within seventy-two hours. The total number of agents to be involved was calculated at

140. McMahon finished explaining the details of the surveillance to Kennedy and

General Heaney right about the time he finished eating the lasagna that he knew would give him heartburn. He slid the Styrofoam box off to the side and asked General Heaney if he had any Tums. The general produced a roll and tossed it across the table. A moment later one of the general’s aides entered the room and handed him a computer printout and a cover sheet.

Heaney thanked the young officer and glanced over the cover sheet.

“Our computer ran a search for any former commandos living within a hundred miles of Washington, D.C. It turned up ninety-four SEALS, eighty-one Green Berets, and sixty-eight Delta Force commandos.”

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McMahon’s face twisted into a painful look. “That’s over two hundred possible suspects.”

“Yes, but that was before we directed the computer to narrow the search to only commandos that had served with the fourteen black commandos.”

“What did that bring the numbers down to?” The general glanced down at the sheet.

“Twenty-six Green Berets and nineteen Deltas.” Kennedy peered over the top of her glasses. “What happened to all the SEALS?”

The general read over the summary for a moment. “There are only two former

SEALS who fit the description of the assassin that killed Downs, and they both live in

San Diego.” While Kennedy wrestled with that piece of information, McMahon asked, “Where are we going to get the resources to tail forty-five people around the clock?”

Looking to Kennedy, he asked, “Irene, do you have the manpower to handle this?”

Kennedy was staring off into space, and McMahon repeated the question.

Kennedy still didn’t answer so McMahon snapped his fingers. “Earth to Irene, come in.”

Kennedy’s eyes came back into focus. “Excuse me.”

“Do you need a break?”

“No, I’m fine. I was just thinking about something else.” McMahon repeated, “Do you have the assets to conduct around-the-clock surveillance on forty-five suspects?”

“Yes.”

“How?” asked McMahon with a disbelieving look on his face. Kennedy started to give her answer, then stopped, saying, “You don’t want to know.”

“No, I suppose I don’t.”

“General Heaney,” said Kennedy. “Would it be possible for me to take a look at all ninety-four files of the SEALS that live in the D.C. area?”

“Why?”

“I have a hunch.” McMahon’s ears perked up at the word hunch. He believed strongly in intuition and hunches. “Let’s hear it.”

“I’m not comfortable with dumping ninety-four potential suspects based on a piece of information that I’m not sure I trust.”

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“What piece of information are you referring to?” asked McMahon. “The black assassin in the park.

These people have done everything perfectly with one exception: they exposed the guy in the park when we all agree the correct way to kill Downs would have been with a concealed rifle shot.” Kennedy took her glasses off and rubbed her eyes. “We have let this one piece of possibly flawed evidence steer our entire investigation in a very specific direction. Based on this one piece of information we have excluded all SEALS from our investigation.”

“That’s what investigations are all about, Irene,” said McMahon. “You analyze evidence and narrow your search.”

“That’s assuming the evidence is untainted.” Kennedy rose and started to pace. “There is only one logical reason for them to put him in the park, and I can’t believe I didn’t see it earlier. They put him there because they wanted him to be seen.”

“Why would they want him to be seen?” asked Heaney. “To throw us off.

What if the guy wasn’t black?

What if they made him look like he was black?”

“Why would they want us to think he was black?” McMahon saw where Kennedy was going. “If they were SEALS, they would.” The room fell silent while the pieces fell into place for Heaney. McMahon stood and rolled his sleeves up.

“General, I think we had better take a look at those files. While we’re doing that, I’ll have my people initiate surveillance of the fourteen black commandos. Irene, you get your people moving on the other commandos, and we’ll have to consider investigating any SEALS on a case-by-case basis.”

An irritating noise broke the silence of the predawn morning. A hand reached through the darkness toward the red, blinking digital numbers and found the alarm clock. A second later the noise was silenced.

O’Rourke rolled over and wrapped himself around Liz. The previous evening had been a quiet one. Liz had finished writing her column about nine and came over with a movie. Luckily for Michael, she was tired and not in the mood for conversation. Thirty minutes into the video they were both asleep. Michael was trying his best to make things seem normal and was, for the most part, succeeding. It helped that Liz was busy with her job. Michael couldn’t get Arthur Higgins out of his mind. After returning from Georgia, he had gone to the

Congressional Library to see what he could find out about the former

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head of the CIA’s most secretive branch. He came up with nothing, which only added to the mystery.

Michael brushed Liz’s hair aside and kissed her naked shoulder. She turned her head slightly, and he kissed her cheek. O’Rourke kissed her one more time and got out of bed. Grabbing a pair of sweatpants from a hook on the door, Michael put them on and headed downstairs. Duke met him at the bottom of the stairs and followed him into the kitchen. The coffee maker was filled to the top and started. All of his hunting gear was kept in the basement. After descending another flight of stairs, Michael opened the closet and put on a pair of wool socks, khaki pants, a blue flannel shirt, and a pair of boots. The rest of his gear was kept out at the cabin along with several shotguns. By the time he got back up to the kitchen, the pot was done brewing. He poured the whole thing into a large thermos and filled a travel mug for the road. Duke was at his feet stretching and yawning. Before leaving, O’Rourke went back upstairs, set the alarm clock for 7 A.M and kissed Liz on the cheek.

Down in the small garage of the brownstone, Michael loaded Duke into the back of the truck and opened the garage door. Less than five minutes later, he pulled up in front of his brother’s house. Tim, Seamus, and Tim’s chocolate Lab, Cleo, climbed into the truck, and they headed toward the cabin. Against Michael’s wishes Seamus had told Tim everything that had happened over the past two weeks. For the majority of the drive they discussed the information they had learned from

Augie.

When they arrived at the cabin, Coleman was already there. He was waiting inside at the kitchen table. The O’Rourkes pulled up chairs, and the coffee mugs were filled to the brim. When everyone was settled in, Coleman eagerly asked, “What have you found out?”

“Have you ever heard of a man named Arthur Higgins?” Coleman squinted.

“Yes.”

“Have you ever met him?”

“No.”

“What do you know about him?”

“He’s an old spook over at the CIA. He handles a lot of dark operations and has a reputation as a man you don’t screw around

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with.”

“What do you mean by dark operations?” asked Tim. “Covert operations that are funded from nongovernment sources and run without the official knowledge of the President and the Intelligence Committee.”

“Have you ever been involved in one of these operations?”

“No.” Coleman shook his head. “They use mercenaries . . и former commandos. These things can’t be connected in any way to our government.

The whole reason they are run as a dark op is because the spooks know they could never get official approval. They have to have complete deniability if anything goes wrong. The money can’t be traced back to the U.S. and neither can the soldiers. Before the SEALS or any other

American military personnel can be sent into a foreign country to conduct a covert operation, the CIA or the Pentagon has to get approval from a ranking member of the Intelligence Committee and the

President.

Dark operations completely circumvent the chain of command. It’s a strange world, very secretive and risky. Everything is done unofficially and without a paper trail. All you ever hear about these people are whispers and rumors. I actually know some former SEALS who have worked for Higgins.”

“Do you think you could talk to them and find out what they know about him?” asked Michael. “I could, but Higgins is the type of person you don’t just start asking questions about, or you might end up as shark bait.”

“I thought you SEALS were a tight group. Can’t you ask them a few questions without raising too much attention. “Maybe, maybe not. This isn’t like calling up an old high school buddy and asking him about a girl he used to date. These are serious people and they don’t like questions. They prefer to stay anonymous and quiet.”

“What in the hell are a couple of former SEALS doing working for a guy like Higgins?” asked Tim. “What do you expect them to do when they leave the service . ии go sell used cars or program computers? We are trained to do a very specific job, and trained to do it better than anyone else in the world. If you’re a SEAL, you’re better than ninety-nine point nine percent of all the soldiers who have ever laced up a boot. You are the best of the best, and do you know what you get paid?… You max out at about forty grand a year. Then one day you

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leave the service and you’re confronted with two options. You go to work in the private sector in a boring nine-to-five job and get paid about the same as when you were in the military, or you go to work for some guy like Higgins and get paid six figures plus for working about fifty days a year. And guys like Higgins aren’t the only people who want you. Big-time drug dealers, oil sheikhs, third-world governments, international bankers, they’re all willing to pay big bucks to have a

SEAL on their security staff. I know guys that are getting paid a half a million a year to sit around and play bodyguard. For a lot of these guys it’s a status thing to be able to say their bodyguard is a SEAL.

In the Middle East our reputation alone scares the shit out of people.”

“I understand your point, but I thought you guys had an honor code,”

said Tim. “We do, but we’re not an infallible fraternity. We have our bad apples just like any other organization. The reality is there are people who are willing to kill for money, and once they cross that line, they are no longer part of our brotherhood. they are assassins and mercenaries.”

“So you don’t think it would be wise to start asking questions about

Higgins?” asked Michael. “From what I’ve heard about the man, no, I

don’t. What has got you so interested in him?”

“Seamus and I took a little trip down to Georgia yesterday to talk to

Augie Jackson.”

“Seamus’s friend who used to work for the CIA?”

“Yes …. Augie told us some pretty interesting stories about

Higgins.

He’s convinced that he’s responsible for the killing of Erik and

Congressman Turnquist.” Coleman grew cautious. “So he buys into the idea that there are two separate groups doing the killing?”

“Yes.”

“Did he ask any questions about who the first group might be?”

“Yes.” Coleman stared at Michael for a long time. “You told him, didn’t you?” Coleman looked to Seamus, and neither he nor Michael answered the question. The former SEAL shook his head and swore. “He only knows that I’m involved,” said Seamus. “Scott, we can trust

Augie.”

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Coleman looked at his watch. “Well, we’ll know the answer to that any minute. If you hear any choppers overhead, we can all kiss our asses good-bye.”

“Scott, he believes in what we’re doing. He hated Fitzgerald and

Koslowski more than we did, and he was very convincing with the stuff he told us about Arthur.”

“Why does he think Higgins killed Erik and Turnquist?” Michael spent the next several minutes telling Coleman Augie’s story. He relayed the story of the covert mission that Arthur had masterminded to get rid of the French politicians back in the early sixties and then went on to explain Arthur’s hatred for Senator Olson.

Coleman asked few questions. Michael told him how Arthur was forced out of the Agency by Stansfield and ordered to cease any involvement in intelligence and national security issues. When Michael was done recounting Augie’s story, he asked Coleman what he thought. “The man has the power and resources to pull it off, and as I told you several days ago, whoever blew up Erik’s limo has to have some real connections. They had less than a week to put that operation together.” Coleman shrugged his shoulders. “It wouldn’t surprise me in the slightest if he had a hand in this, but we don’t have the intel or the capability to know for sure.”

“I know, but we have to do something.” Coleman tapped the side of his mug. “I really don’t think it’s a good idea to ask any more questions about this guy. The FBI’s investigation is kicking into high gear.

It’s important that we act normal and don’t draw any attention to ourselves.”

Coleman pointed at the three O’Rourkes. “You guys can get away with a lot more than I can. They’re not going to come after you, but sooner or later they’re gonna come knocking on my door.” Seamus thought about what Coleman had said for a moment and then asked, “What about taking him out?”

“Higgins?”

“Yes.”

“In principle I don’t have a problem with it. From what I’ve heard he’s the snake of snakes, but I’d like to be a little more sure that he was behind this before we go to that extreme. Besides, I’m not even

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sure we could get to him. My guess is that he has some pretty tight security around him.” Michael slid the dossier across the table.

“Augie gave this to us before we left. It’s a full profile of Arthur’s movements and security measures. It breaks down his estate’s security system step-by-step and describes, in detail, the endeavors he has continued to be involved in since he was forced out of the Agency.”

Coleman opened the file and started thumbing through the pages. After several minutes Coleman looked at Michael. “You got this from this guy that used to work at the CIA?”

“Yes.”

“Where did he get it?”

“He compiled it for Director Stansfield.”

“They were thinking about taking him out, weren’t they?”

“Yes.”

“Unbelievable.”

“In the back,” Seamus said, “there’s a section describing his business dealings and continued meddling in the CIA’s business. If you turn to page four of the section, you’ll find a highlighted paragraph that you’re not going to like.” Coleman flipped to the back of the file and scanned the paragraph. It stated that Higgins was believed to be involved with a group of black marketers who were stealing high-tech U.S. weaponry from manufacturers and military bases and selling it abroad through a Middle East arms dealer that had known sympathies for anti-American regimes.

Like any other U.S. soldier, Coleman hated the thought that he or his men might be killed by an American-made weapon, especially a high-tech weapon that wasn’t supposed to be sold. Coleman finished reading the paragraph and looked up at the former Recon

Marine sitting across the table. “Michael, I think you and I should go take a look at his estate this evening.” On the top floor of the residential side of the White House was a large room that faced south called the Solarium. The room sat above the Eisenhower

Balcony and had large plate-glass windows running from the floor to the ceiling. Stevens liked the room because it was the brightest in the White House, and since he was starting to feel like a caged animal, he decided to move his lunch meeting up to the top floor, where he could actually see beyond the gates of the compound. He was scheduled to meet with the leaders of his party to go over the legislative agenda for Monday’s reconvening of the House and Senate.

Stevens looked out across the South Lawn toward the Washington Monument.

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The large green personnel carriers and tanks were clearly visible from his panoramic perch. “God, it’s only been four days since we got back from Camp David, and I already feel trapped.” Stevens shook his head at a flight of four green Cobra gunships working their way eastward across the Mall from the Lincoln Monument to the Capitol. The sight of all the military equipment so openly visible in the heart of Washington made him wonder if the decision to bring in the military was wise.

“Stu, are you sure this is the right thing to do?” Garret was sitting at a small desk feverishly writing. Without looking up he asked, “Is what the right thing to do?” Stevens waved his arm in front of him, gesturing toward the Mall. “Bringing in such a strong military presence. I mean, do we really need tanks in front of the Washington

Monument? It just. it just makes me look so harsh. Like I’m a dictator.”

“That’s what we need right now, Jim. I’ve talked to every pollster from New York to

L.A. over the last three days, and they’re all telling me the same thing. The American people want law and order returned to their capital. The voters are scared and they’re looking to you for guidance and leadership.

Bringing the military in will portray the right message. You’ll be seen as a strong and decisive leader.”

“I know, but what about what you said initially? That we’d look like the Chinese if we brought in the tanks?”

“Shit, that was before they killed the damn Speaker of the House in broad daylight and tried to blow us out of the sky. Things have gotten much more serious than they were after that first morning. The voters are scared. At first they got off on the thrill of seeing a couple of dinosaurs like Fitzgerald and Koslowski get assassinated. That initial thrill is gone, and they want a return to law and order. They’ll turn on their TVS when they sit down to eat dinner tonight, and they’ll see a stone-faced soldier sitting on the turret of a tank and they’ll be happy they have a strong President who’s willing to take action in a time of crisis. Trust me, Jim, I know what I’m doing on this one.”

COLEMAN AND THE O’ROURKES STAYED AT THE CABIN UNTIL ALMOST

10 A.M. , talking about which course of action to take with Arthur. After the O’Rourkes left for D.C Coleman spent most of the afternoon checking out the neighborhood where

Arthur lived. From his SEAL training, Coleman had developed a knack for memorizing maps. He drove down every street within five miles of Arthur’s estate, checking for unmarked service drives and paths that led from the road down to the water, making mental notes of anything and everything that might be useful.

Before taking any action against Arthur he wanted to be completely familiar with the neighborhood. The closer he got to Arthur’s estate the more details he took in: which houses had security cameras, which ones had Beware of Dog signs, and which ones had

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guardhouses. He only drove past Arthur’s gate once. Anything more than that might arouse some suspicion. Besides, he was more worried about the houses that bordered

Arthur’s. Augie’s file stated that neither had high-tech security systems. Both had security company signs at the end of the driveway, but neither had gates or fences, which probably meant the houses were wired but not the grounds. After his sight-seeing tour, Coleman drove out to Sparrows Point, just south of Baltimore on the Patapsco River. The large industrial yard was once entirely occupied by Bethlehem Steel, but with the decline of the U.S. steel industry it was now partitioned into extremely cheap warehouse and waterfront dock space. The SEAL Demolition and Salvage Corporation was located in a dirty, dank building that faced Old Road Bay on the east end of the point. The lease was a meager one thousand dollars a month for one thousand square feet of finished office space and another ten thousand square feet of bulk warehouse. Coleman pulled his Ford

Explorer into the large warehouse and got out. Earlier in the day he had called his only two employees and told them to meet him at the office around 4 P.M. They were standing next to the office checking diving equipment when he arrived. Dan Stroble and Kevin

Hackett were also former SEALS.

They had served on Coleman’s SEAL team for three years and had left the Navy about six months after their commander. Since the inception of the SEAL Demolition and

Salvage Corporation four months earlier, they had only done one job, for British

Petroleum. BP had quietly contracted to have one of their abandoned oil rigs in the North

Atlantic demolished.

Somehow, word had leaked out, and Greenpeace was mobilizing a group of protesters to occupy the rig and prevent the demolition. They wanted BP to dismantle the rig girder by girder. To the executives at BP the decision was simple: demolish the rig at a cost of two hundred thousand dollars or dismantle it piece by piece at an estimated cost of $5

million. BP scrambled to put together the demolition team and blow the rig before

Greenpeace could mobilize. BP’s best estimate was that they could have all of the charges in place and ready to go within forty-eight hours. They found out that a boat loaded with Greenpeace activists was docked in Reykjavik, Iceland, and set to leave port the following morning. The activists would arrive at the rig by noon the next day and storm the platform, creating an international media event that would bring public and political pressure down on BP to dismantle the rig. BP needed to slow the protesters down so they would have enough time to blow the rig. The vice President of operations at

BP was told to find a way to stop the activists from reaching the rig without making it look as if BP had had a hand in it. The executive made several calls to his contacts in

America and Britain and found out that a new, upstart company in Maryland might be perfect for the job.

The man called Coleman and explained the situation to him. He had twenty hours to get to Reykjavik and stop the boat from leaving the harbor. The man didn’t care how it was done, just so long as no one was hurt. Coleman had a rough idea of how much it would cost BP if they had to dismantle the rig, so he said he’d do the job for three hundred thousand dollars. The BP exec agreed, and Coleman, Stroble, and Hackett were on the next flight out of Dulles with their diving gear. They landed in Reykjavik just

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before sundown and were down at the pier by eleven that evening. During their tenure as

SEALS, they had spent countless hours swimming around dirty harbors attaching explosives to hulls and disabling propellers and rudders. The only thing that was difficult about the mission was the temperature of the water. Even with their neoprene wet suits they could stay in the water for no more than fifteen minutes at a time. They took turns swimming over to the ship from a berth about two hundred feet away. Using an acetylene torch, they cut away at the U-joint where the driveshaft met the propeller. The boat would be able to maintain steerage and prop speed up to about ten knots. Anything more than that and the laws of physics would take effect. The increased torque on the propeller would cause the sabotaged joint that connected the driveshaft to the prop to snap. They sat at a cafe the next morning and wagered on whether the ship would make it out of the harbor. Coleman didn’t feel guilty about the job. He’d been around the ocean his whole life and had a deep respect for and healthy fear of it. Sending a couple thousand tons of steel to the ocean floor wouldn’t harm it a bit. As they drank coffee and waited for their 8

A.M. flight back to Washington, a tug moved in and towed the ship out to the main channel. The lines were released and the ship was under way. A white froth churned up behind the stern of the boat as it headed for the open sea. It had just cleared the seawall when the frothy wake subsided and the ship stalled, turning sideways in the middle of the channel. An hour later, Coleman, Stroble, and Hackett were on their way back to

Washington. Over the last month they had received two more offers for jobs, but they had told the prospective clients they were too busy to take the work.

Coleman slammed the door of his car and walked over to Stroble and Hackett. “How are you guys doing?”

“Great, sir. How about you?”

“Fine. Have you checked the messages?”

“Yep,” answered Stroble. “There was nothing on the machine.”

When Coleman asked if they’d checked the messages, he actually meant, have you checked the office and phones for bugs? They knew that eventually the FBI would put them under surveillance. They needed an alibi that would explain all of the time they’d spent together while planning for their mission, so with some seed money from Seamus they had started the SEAL Demolition and Salvage Corporation. They weren’t the only retired SEALS living in D.C. who were working with each other.

Coleman knew of two others a little older than him who ran a charter fishing operation out of Annapolis and had a sneaking suspicion that they did a little work for the

CIA on the side. There were also several other groups of SEALS that ran security firms, providing bodyguards for diplomats and corporate executives. Coleman and Seamus had agreed that the key to not getting caught was making sure they afforded the FBI no hard evidence. That meant no fingerprints, no eyewitnesses, and no ballistics that would link them to the killings.

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They wore gloves during every phase of the operation and kept their faces concealed.

The rifles used to kill Koslowski and Basset and the pistol used to kill Downs were now rusting at the bottom of the Chesapeake. No real evidence linked them to the murders. If the FBI came, all they would find would be three former SEALS trying to launch a new business venture. Coleman went into the office and came back out saying, “Let’s get the gear together. I want to take the boat down to Annapolis and do a bid on a project. If the weather stays nice, we might be able to get some fishing in on the way back. Let’s pack up and shove off in about thirty minutes.” While Stroble and Hackett gathered up the diving gear, Coleman topped off the tanks on the boat.

Within thirty minutes they were under way and headed for the Bay. They centered their conversation on inconsequential small talk until Stroble finished going over the boat with a sensor. Coleman stood behind the wheel on the flybridge and watched the movements of the ships and small vessels around them. He feared that the FBI might try to bug the office, his apartment, or his car, but that didn’t scare him.

Those could be detected, and if they were dumb enough to bug him, they would tip their hand. What he feared most was the use of directional microphones. The CIA had been using them for years, and the technology was getting better and better. A person could stand over three hundred feet away and eavesdrop on someone’s conversation by merely pointing a microphone at them. The CIA had developed the technology to listen through walls and other hard materials where it was difficult to place a bug. As they reached the open water of the Bay, Stroble and Hackett huddled next to Coleman on the flybridge. With the engines roaring, the wind rushing past, and not another ship within a mile, Coleman started to fill them in on the details of Seamus and Michael’s meeting with

Augie. Neither Stroble nor Hackett was surprised by the story.

They’d heard the rumors about Higgins before, and it seemed well within the realm of possibilities that he was responsible for the murders of Olson, Turnquist, and their bodyguards. By the time they reached Annapolis, Coleman had given them all of the details regarding the meeting he’d had with the O’Rourkes. They cruised south past

Annapolis to Tolly Point, and Coleman headed for shore. He told Stroble and Hackett to stay below until they were back out in the Bay. The sun was setting in the west, and patches of gray clouds were moving in off the Atlantic. Rain would be welcomed but not crucial. Still atop the bridge, Coleman maneuvered his boat into the marina at the end of

Tolly Point. He saw someone standing next to the gas pumps on the dock and raised his hand to block the low sun. Coleman swung the boat in and came up alongside the dock.

Michael jumped on board holding a fishing pole and tackle box.

“Welcome aboard, Congressman. It looks like we’re going to have a nice night for fishing. Stow your gear and grab us a couple of beers out of the cooler.” Spinning the wheel around, Coleman headed back through the channel. Michael set his gear down and flipped open a red cooler.

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Grabbing two beers, he climbed the ladder to the bridge and handed one to Coleman.

Coleman smiled and nodded. A second later they passed the no-wake buoys, and

Coleman pushed the throttles down, gunning the engines. As the noise increased, Michael whispered, “Are Dan and Kevin here?”

“Yeah, they’re below. I told them to stay there until we were out of sight. Did you have any trouble getting here?”

“No, as far as I could tell, no one followed me.” Coleman looked at his watch. It was

5:21 P.M. “The sun should be down in another fifteen minutes, and then we have to stop and pick up some equipment …. We should get there around seven P.M.” Coleman hugged the coast as they headed south toward Thomas Point.

The Bay was calm. A light breeze was coming in from the east, and the boat traffic was light. Most of the recreational boaters on the Chesapeake were done until next spring. The temperature was around fifty-eight degrees and dropping. He continued past

Thomas Point for exactly 1.3 miles and turned due east, cutting across the main shipping channel of the Bay. Stroble and Hackett, in the meantime, had changed out of their clothes and put on wet suits. Michael stood on the flybridge with a pair of binoculars and scanned their path for any ships. When they reached the other side of the channel, Coleman pulled the boat up next to one of the large red buoys that marked the shipping channel and dropped anchor. Stroble and Hackett had their diving gear on and were giving each other one last safety check, going over each other’s equipment like pilots doing a preflight instrument check.

Coleman and Michael stayed atop the flybridge and kept a lookout for the Coast

Guard while Stroble and Hackett went over the side. About five minutes later, they came back up with a large trunk. Michael and Coleman lifted the heavy container into the boat.

It was five by four feet and about three feet high and was made out of dark green fiberglass. Coleman popped the hermetically sealed clasps and opened the trunk. Set in foam cutouts on the top section were six pairs of night-vision goggles.

Coleman grabbed four of them and handed them to Michael. Next, he grabbed two handles and lifted the top section out of the container, revealing a cache of weapons also set in foam cutouts. Coleman snatched three MP-5 submachine guns and a sniper’s rifle from the container along with silencers and ammunition clips. After closing the airtight trunk, he and Michael handed it back over the side to Stroble and Hackett. They took the trunk back down to the bottom and covered it with rocks. When Stroble and Hackett were back on board, Coleman raised the anchor and headed back across the Bay on a southwesterly course. Stroble and Hackett checked all of the weapons to make sure they were clean and well oiled and then packed them into waterproof backpacks. When they were finished, Hackett took the helm so Michael and Coleman could get ready.

Everyone was fitted with a waterproof radio and headset that was worn under their wet suits. About a half a mile from Curtis Point, Coleman took back the helm and slowed the boat to about ten knots. He pulled to within about a quarter of a mile from shore and

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turned south, counting the houses as he went. When they passed the sixth house in from the point, Coleman told Stroble and Hackett to put on their night-vision goggles and scan the ridgeline of the cliff and the docks for people.

The entire shoreline consisted of an elevated cliff that ranged from fifty to eighty feet in height. Arthur’s estate sat in the middle of a small swale. The cliff on either side of his estate was about ten feet higher than it was in front of his. Stroble and Hackett announced that no one was in sight. Coleman continued for another four hundred feet and pulled to within thirty feet of shore, cutting the engines and dropping anchor. Before leaving the bridge, he turned off all of the running lights. It was a good night for reconnaissance.

What little moon there was, was sitting low in the night sky and partially obscured by clouds.

Coleman gathered everyone close together for a radio check and quick briefing. He spoke in a low whisper. The acoustics of the water caused sound to travel much farther than people realized. “All right, I’m Zeus, Michael is Apollo, Dan you’re Hermes, and

Kevin you’re Cyclops.” Hackett smiled at the code name, which referred to the sight on his sniper’s rifle. “Everyone check your watches. I’m reading nineteen zero eight on my mark.” Coleman waited for his watch to strike 7:08 P.M. and said, “Mark.” Everyone synchronized their watches. “Arthur’s estate is loaded with motion sensors, laser trip wires, and tremor plates. There is no way we are going to sneak in there without being noticed. What I want to do tonight is get a better look at the two neighbors’ yards and get a general feel for the layout.

Kevin, I want you and Dan to scout out the neighbors to the north. As far as I can tell, their security systems are for their houses only, not the grounds. Make sure you check out the dock and the stairs leading up to the house before you use them. When you reach the top of the cliff, check out the fence that runs between Arthur’s yard and the neighbor’s.

Kevin, as soon as possible I want you to find a spot in one of the big oak trees that run along the property line. If anything goes wrong, I want you to be in a position to give us cover if we need to bug out.”

“What are my rules of engagement?” asked Hackett. “I want to get out of here tonight without anyone knowing we were here.”

“What if he steps out for one of his cigars, and I have him dead in my sights?”

Coleman pondered the question. “I’m tempted, but the answer is no. I don’t want to rush into anything. We are here to gather information and get out.” Michael, Hackett, and

Stroble nodded. “If something goes wrong and one of his guards opens fire, take him out.

Otherwise let’s keep our fingers off the triggers One more thing, the wind is out of the east. Keep that in mind if they start patrolling with the dogs.” Everyone nodded. “All right, be careful.” Stroble and Hackett sat down on the diving platform and put on their fins and diving masks.

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They stuck their snorkels in their mouths and slid into the water, quietly swimming away. Before Michael and Coleman got in, Coleman asked, “Do Recon Marines know how to swim?”

“No.” Michael smiled. “I thought you were going to tow me in.”

“Good one. Let’s go.” The two slid into the water and headed for shore.

They sliced through the water using only a leg kick, the large black fins making the task easy. The only thing showing were the thin black snorkels and the top of their masks.

When they reached the dock of the neighbor to the south of Arthur, they swam ashore and took their backpacks and diving masks off. Coleman whispered into the tiny microphone hanging in front of his mouth, “This is Zeus, we’re ashore, over.”

“This is Cyclops, we’re almost there, over.” Michael and Coleman knelt on the small strip of sand between the water’s edge and the cliff.

Craning his neck backward, Michael looked up at the dark wall of rock.

It looked to be about the height of a three-story building. Coleman tapped him on the shoulder. “Get your gear ready. I’m going to take a look at this dock and see if it has any security devices.” Coleman pulled the night-vision goggles down and waded out into the water.

Without touching the dock, he looked underneath it to check for wires or cables.

When he got out to the end, he swam under the huge yellow-and-white tarp where a thirty-six-foot Chris-Craft was docked.

After checking the entire dock, he swam back to shore and grabbed his backpack.

Michael had already put a magazine into Coleman’s MP-5 and attached the silencer. He handed the weapon to Coleman, and the former SEAL checked to make sure a round was in the chamber and the safety on.

Coleman looked at Michael with a grin. “Do you remember how to do this?”

“It’s coming back to me.”

“Good. Let’s go.” Michael followed as Coleman led the way up the stairs.

The stairs zigzagged up the cliff, changing lateral direction about every twenty steps.

Not counting the bottom and top, there were three landings in between. When they neared the top, Coleman held up his fist signaling Michael to wait while he checked things out.

He crawled just short of the last step and checked the posts of the railing for a motion sensor. He knew there wasn’t a laser trip wire or it would have showed up on his night-vision goggles. Next, he scanned the large house for movement, and after several minutes of checking everything in and around the house, he waved O’Rourke up. They stayed low

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and scampered along a row of hedges that separated the lawn from the edge of the cliff.

At the end of the hedges they reached a small patio and gazebo. Just on the other side of the gazebo was the ten-foot, brick fence that separated Arthur’s yard from his neighbors’.

Coleman grabbed one of the patio chairs and brought it around the back side of the gazebo. He and O’Rourke slung their weapons over their backs and climbed onto the roof. They lay on their stomachs and looked over the fence. The view from atop the slightly angled, octagonal roof was perfect. Almost all of Arthur’s backyard was visible.

Coleman spoke into his mike, keeping his voice barely above a whisper, “Cyclops, this is

Zeus, are you in position, over?”

“That’s affirmative, Zeus. I found a nice little nest with a bird’s-eye view, over.”

“Have you seen any guards yet, over?”

“That’s affirmative. I count one man and a canine.

They swept the back side of the house about two minutes ago, over.”

“Roger. I’d like you to do a check on my position. We are directly south of you just on the other side of the fence, over.” O’Rourke and Coleman lay perfectly still for about sixty seconds and then Hackett’s voice responded. “I’ve got you. Just barely though, it took me four passes.

Make sure you keep a low profile. The sky is pretty dark behind you, but your silhouettes will still show, over.”

“How high up are you, Cyclops?

Over.”

“I’m a good twenty feet up, over.”

“Roger, let me know if the dog shows up along my fence line. It’s my only blind spot, over.”

“Will do, over.”

“Hermes, this is Zeus, what’s your position, over?” Stroble was standing on the lowest branch of an old oak tree. He hugged the trunk and peered over the fence at the front of

Arthur’s house. “I’ve got a good view of the front of the house, over.”

“What do you see, over?”

“I’ve got two guards by the front door, both are accompanied by a German shepherd, over.”

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“How are they equipped, over?”

“They’re decked out in combat boots, dark jumpsuits, and combat vests.

One of them is carrying a sidearm. check, make that both of them.”

Stroble peered through his goggles and then lifted them up onto his forehead and grabbed his field binoculars out of his breast pocket.

The guards were standing under the light of the front door. The detail was much better with the binoculars.

“They are both carrying Uzis, and it looks like they’re wearing flak jackets, over.”

“How are they set up for communication, over?”

“They are both wearing shoulder mikes, and it … looks … like their radios are mounted on their upper back, left side, over.”

“Is one of them the guard that just finished the sweep of the backyard, over?”

“That’s a roger, over.” Coleman looked at his watch. “All right, you guys know the routine. Announce any movements and mark the intervals.

We should have one more guard at the front gate and one more in the house.

Let’s see how good these guys are, over.” For the next hour they watched the two guards and their dogs patrol the grounds. One of them always stayed by the front door while the other roamed the estate.

There was no rhyme or reason to the intervals. A guard would leave for one lap around the house one time, and the next time he would wander around the estate for ten minutes. To the common observer it looked disorganized, and in a way it was, but by design. Set patterns and predictability were liabilities in this business, not assets. These guards were professionals. Stroble was getting tired of standing, so he sat down on the large branch. He was just barely able to see over the top of the fence and into Arthur’s yard and could still see the two guards and their dogs at the front door. Both guards reached for their shoulder mikes and said something.

Then they turned and headed in opposite directions toward the sides of the house. The unusual movement caught Stroble’s attention, and then without warning bright flood lamps illuminated the tree lines to the north and south of Arthur’s estate. Stroble leapt down from the tree and started running as quietly as possible for the water. He whispered into his mike, “I think they may have seen me, over.” Coleman and O’Rourke instantly

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crept backward when the lights came on and were huddling on the other side of the roof.

Coleman asked, “Hermes, where are you, over?”

“I’m making my way toward the cliff, over.”

“Roger, Hermes, stand by at the cliff and wait for Cyclops, over.

Cyclops, I need some intel.

What’s going on, over?”

“I’ve got both guards and their dogs working their way down the fence line towards the water. They are looking in the trees, but neither of them have their weapons drawn. It appears that they’re doing some kind of sweep, over.”

“Do you still have good concealment, over?”

“That’s affirmative, over.”

“All right, you are going to have to give us the play-by-play because we can’t see anything, over.”

“Don’t move or make any noise. The guard and the dog on the south side are coming up on your position. I have him in my sights.” Hackett kept his voice below a whisper.

“Good. Zeus, they are looking over the edge of the cliff down at the water The guard closest to you just said something into his mike and is heading back to the house.”

Without warning, all of the floodlights were extinguished and darkness returned to the landscape. “What in the hell was that all about?” asked Michael.

“I don’t know,” whispered Coleman. “Everyone sit tight for a couple minutes and see what happens next. Don’t talk unless something develops, over.” Coleman and Michael crawled back to the crest of the roof and looked over the fence. Less than a minute later

Hackett broke the silence. “I think I hear a car pulling up the driveway.”

NANCE STEPPED OUT OF THE BACKSEAT OF HIS LIMO AND HELD HIS

ARMS straight out.

A guard approached and waved a sensor over his body. After he was done, the guard spoke into his shoulder mike, telling the controller inside the house that Arthur’s guest was clean. Nance’s bodyguard and driver waited by the car while the national security adviser was escorted into the house. When he entered the study, he found Arthur in his usual spot, waiting by the fireplace. Nance strode across the room and stopped a short distance away. Arthur’s lips showed the faintest hint of a smile and he said, “I hope you don’t mind standing. I’ve been sitting all day.”

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“No, not at all.”

“Good. What is of such importance that you needed to come see me in person?”

“You will have to be the judge. I just wanted to keep you abreast of some developments.” Nance shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

“Yesterday morning, Special Agent McMahon of the FBI received a phone call from the terrorists claiming that they had nothing to do with the killing of Olson and

Turnquist.”

“Really.” Arthur pursed his lips. “I expected them to go to the media with the story, not the FBI.”

“So did I. Does this worry you?” Arthur slapped the question away with the wave of a hand. “No, not really.

Nothing can be traced back to us. No one other than you, Garret, and myself know who was behind those murders. The people we used were hired very discreetly. They made no contact with anyone. They picked up an envelope that contained Olson’s and

Turnquist’s names and an account number at a very discreet bank in the Caymans. Even if the FBI were to catch the assassins, they wouldn’t be able to trace it back to us.”

“Unless one of us talked.” Arthur stared at Nance with sharp eyes.

“We both know that neither you nor I would speak to the FBI, so I would have to assume you are referring to Mr. Garret.”

“Yes.” Arthur exhaled an even, long breath. “What has he done now?”

“He has a hard time hiding his emotions. During the briefing yesterday, when

McMahon played the tape of his conversation with the assassin, Mr. Garret became very nervous and animated.”

“I don’t see that as being a problem. Nervous and animated fits his normal profile.”

Nance sighed. It was often tiring trying to convince Arthur of something. “While the taped conversation was being played, he broke out in a sweat and would not stop staring at me. He looked uncharacteristically nervous and afraid.”

“Did anyone else notice his behavior?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

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“Thomas Stansfield.” Arthur grew more concerned. “Are you sure?”

“Completely.”

“How much did he see?”

“Everything. You know how he is, Arthur. The man is a professional.

He takes everything in.”

“What exactly did he see?”

“He saw Garret fidget in his chair, his brow break out in a sweat, and his eyes darting back and forth between me and the transcript of the phone conversation. I was watching

Stansfield stare at Stu, and then, just like you or I would have done, he followed Stu’s eyes across the table to me. He took the whole thing in.” Arthur sighed. “Well, I would have preferred for that not to have happened, but I don’t think it will affect us. As I said earlier, there is no way they can trace this back to us.”

“As long as Mr. Garret keeps his mouth shut.”

“He will stay quiet. He has strong survival instincts.”

“I know he does. That’s what worries me. What if Stansfield puts two and two together and makes a wild guess that you were the one who ordered the hit on Olson?

Stansfield knows you hated him.” Nance paused to let Arthur think about the scenario and then continued, “Mr. Garret’s survival instincts are so strong that he would turn on us in a second if it meant saving himself.” Arthur looked at Nance and then into the fire.

He watched the flames flicker while he contemplated his options, looking at every angle, trying to determine if Garret was more of a threat or an asset. He imagined

Stansfield pulling Garret aside and catching him off guard, telling him that he knew all about his connection with Arthur and that they were behind the assassinations of Olson and Turnquist.

Stansfield could easily speculate and connect the dots, but that meant nothing as long as Garret kept his mouth shut. The motives for killing a career politician were abundant.

They could prove nothing without one of them talking, and as he and Nance had discussed earlier, the odds of that happening were zero.

Arthur concluded that they would have to head this one off before Stansfield had the chance to act. “I think that we need to be proactive on this and let Mr. Garret know what the consequences would be if he talked.” Arthur ran one of his thin fingers over his bottom lip. “Tell Mr. Garret that I have made arrangements to have him dealt with if he

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ever whispers a word of this to anyone …. Tell him that even in the event of my death, the order will be carried out.”

“I think that is a wise decision. I know just how to handle it.”

“Good. I’ll leave the details up to you.” Arthur walked over to the coffee table and grabbed two cigars. “Let’s step outside. I have some other things I would like to discuss with you.” Nance followed his mentor across the room and out into the cool night air.

O’Rourke and Coleman were concentrating on the guard who was standing watch at the edge of the cliff when Hackett came crackling over their earpieces.

“Zeus, this is Cyclops. I just spotted two men in suits that walked out of the house and are standing on the patio. Do you copy, over?”

O’Rourke had his night-vision goggles flipped up and Coleman had his down. Both of them looked toward the house.

Coleman saw them right away, the goggles illuminating them in a clear green-and-black picture. O’Rourke could see the bright red tips of the cigars, but nothing else. It was hard to make out their silhouettes in the dark. Coleman whispered into his mike, “I copy, Cyclops. I see two men …. I think one of them is our boy. I can’t tell who the other guy is, over.” Coleman flipped his mike up and said to Michael, “It’s nice to know Augie was right about this cigar thing.” O’Rourke quietly pulled his goggles down and peered toward the house. He adjusted his goggles and brought the two men into focus. Being careful to keep his voice down, he said, “The guy on the right is Arthur, but I can’t see who the guy on the left is.”

“I can’t either,” responded Coleman. “Cyclops, we can’t see who the other guy is, can you, over?”

“Yes, he looks familiar, but I haven’t got a real good look at him, over.” O’Rourke

Was watching Arthur talk, and then the other man turned his face toward them, exhaling a puff of smoke. O’Rourke squinted and tapped Coleman on the shoulder. “I think that’s

Mike Nance.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m almost positive.” Michael pulled his mike down. “Cyclops, this is Apollo. Is the other man the President’s national security adviser, Mike Nance, over?” Cyclops moved his rifle sight from Arthur to the other man. Nance removed the cigar from his mouth and

Cyclops got a full shot of his face. “That’s a roger, the other man is Mike Nance, over.”

“What in the hell is Mike Nance doing here?” asked O’Rourke. “I have no idea,” said

Coleman as he peered back toward the cliff to see what the guard and dog were doing.

“Are you sure it’s him?”

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“Yes.” O’Rourke continued to stare at the two men standing on the veranda. “Augie told me that Stansfield ordered Arthur to cease all dealings with his contacts from the intelligence community.”

“Well, he’s obviously ignoring the order.”

Coleman pulled his mike back down in front of his mouth. “All right, everybody, this is Zeus, listen up. We are going to wait until these two finish their cigars, and then, hopefully, they’ll go back inside and the guard by the cliff will head back up to the main house. Then we will finish our recon and head back to the boat. Until then, we sit tight. I

don’t want them to have any idea we were here, over.” Irene Kennedy was having a difficult time staying awake. The human body needs more than two hours of sleep in a day. Kennedy had only slept two hours in the last three days, and her body was about to shut down.

She was sitting in the midst of stacks of green personnel dossiers.

Ninety-four to be exact. Kennedy was methodically picking through each file, reading every boring line of black print. Military personnel dossiers were not intriguing reading.

Kennedy had already read fifty-two of the files and was coming to the realization that she would not finish tonight. It was almost 11 P.M and her ability to analyze the tedious information was diminishing. She decided to read two more files and call it a night, leaving herself an even forty to finish in the morning. She was impressed with the job that Naval Intelligence had done in keeping tabs on their former SEALS. Even the CIA

was interested. Kennedy had found five SEALS who were now on the CIA payroll. The files didn’t say they worked for the CIA. Kennedy recognized their employers as companies that were either fronts for the Agency or companies that did a lot of work for the Agency. Kennedy opened the next file and looked down at a picture of Scott

Coleman.

Beneath the photo was his date of discharge. A little over a year ago.

She continued reading the file, noticing nothing unusual. Any one of the ninety-four files alone would be impressive, but after reading fifty of them they all kind of blended together, and the superhuman feats these men performed started to seem normal.

Kennedy noticed that Coleman’s IQ was near the genius level. Flipping to the last several pages, Kennedy read a list of covert missions that Coleman had participated in. It was long and impressive, starting in the early eighties and finishing about a year and a half ago. The missions were all listed by code names. Because of Kennedy’s security clearance and her background in terrorism, she recognized almost half of the missions.

She got to the last mission Coleman had participated in, and an empty feeling crept into her stomach. The code name for the mission was Operation Snatch Back. Snatch

Back was something few people knew about, and something that no one wanted to talk about. The only thing listed after Operation Snatch Back was Coleman’s date of discharge.

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Next to the date, in parenthesis, was the comment “Early discharge granted.”

“I haven’t seen one of those yet,” Kennedy commented to herself. As her curiosity grew, Kennedy felt less tired. She flipped to the last page and found that Coleman was living in Adams Morgan and had started a company called SEAL Demolition and

Salvage Corporation. Kennedy immediately wondered who the other employees of the

SEAL Demolition and Salvage Corporation might be. Grabbing the file, Kennedy stood and walked briskly down the hall toward General Heaney’s office. A young ensign was the only person left in the main office area. “Is the general still in?” asked Kennedy. “Dr.

Kennedy, he said good-bye to you almost three hours ago …. Remember, he said he’d be back at zero six hundred.” Kennedy frowned. “Damn it.”

“Ma’am, if you don’t mind me saying, you look like you could use some sleep.”

Kennedy shook her head and looked down at the file. She stood there for a moment trying to figure out what to do next. “Is there anything I could help you with, ma’am?”

Kennedy looked at the young officer and was about to ask him what his security clearance was and then thought better. At his age and rank there was no way he was cleared to discuss this information. “No… thank you for offering though.” The paper-thin

Kennedy turned to walk away and then stopped.

“Ensign, how unusual is it to get an early discharge when you’re in the Special

Forces?”

“It’s not that unusual. We have guys blowing out knees every other week.

We get at least one broken back a year, and a whole lot of other injuries. A lot of these knee injuries take a year to rehab, so if a guy is due to get out in a year and he blows his knee, we let him go early.”

Kennedy accepted the explanation and said, “Thank you.” Again, she turned to walk away and again stopped. Turning back to the ensign, she said, “If that was the case, wouldn’t their file say medical discharge?”

“Yes, that is correct.” Kennedy opened Coleman’s file and found the page where it said early discharge granted. She pointed at the last line and showed it to the ensign.

“This is different than a medical discharge, is it not?”

“Yes, it is. I’ve never seen one of those before. Well, I shouldn’t say that. With the budget cuts it’s fairly common in the regular Navy, but not in the Special Forces.”

Kennedy wavered for a moment, wondering if she should have the ensign call General

Heaney at home, but knew the general needed sleep as much or more than she did. She decided it could wait until morning. Kennedy asked the ensign for a piece of paper and wrote a note for the general. She paper-clipped it to the top of the folder and handed it to the ensign. “Would you please put this on the general’s desk for me?” Kennedy gathered her things and decided to let the rest of the files wait until morning.

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She had to be in Skip McMahon’s office at 8 A.M. for a meeting.

Arthur and Nance stood outside talking and smoking their cigars for about forty minutes. During that time, O’Rourke and Coleman speculated as to why the national security adviser would be talking to Arthur.

From their spot atop the gazebo they became more and more curious.

Finally, Arthur and Nance went back inside. Several minutes after that, they heard a car drive away. Shortly after that, the guard standing watch by the cliff took his dog and headed back for the house.

Coleman scanned the entire yard thoroughly and told everyone to sit tight for a couple more minutes to make sure they hadn’t missed anything. When he felt comfortable, he lowered his mike and said, “All right, let’s work our way back to the boat. Sound off if anything comes up, over.” Coleman slid off the roof first and lowered himself down onto the chair. O’Rourke followed and put the chair back at the table where they’d found it.

They both huddled next to the row of hedges and looked at each other. For at least the tenth time in the last forty-five minutes, O’Rourke said, “God, I’d like to know what in the hell those two were talking about.”

“So would I.” Coleman looked around the yard and grabbed his mike.

“Cyclops and Hermes, this is Zeus.

Do you read, over?”

“Yes, we read you, over.”

“Where are you, over?”

“We’re getting ready to go down to the water, over.” Coleman looked across the yard.

“I’ve got something I want to check out. It shouldn’t take more than twenty minutes. We’ll meet you back at the boat, over.”

“That’s a roger, over.”

“What’s up?” asked O’Rourke. “When I was driving around today, I noticed that there was a big place for sale several doors down. It looked kind of rundown, like no one was living there. As long as we’re here, I want to look around. Let’s stay low and keep quiet.”

They ran toward the other side of the yard crouching next to the hedges. No fence separated the two yards, only a tree line, but Coleman and O’Rourke stopped anyway.

They scanned the yard with their goggles and looked for motion sensors. They found

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none, and all of the lights in the large house were off. Crossing the yard, they reached an old wrought-iron fence and stopped. “This is it,” said Coleman.

“Let’s walk the fence line and see if we can find a gate.” They walked away from the

Bay and toward the house, their goggles lighting the way for them.

They’d only walked about thirty feet when they found a hole. Two of the wrought-iron bars were missing and a gate had been created. They stepped through the opening and onto a thinly worn path that moved through the trees and weeds. After about thirty feet, it opened into a huge, wild yard the size of a football field. The grass was almost up to their waist. Looking up toward the house, they studied the dilapidated mansion. All of the windows on the main floor were boarded up, and the surrounding vegetation looked as if it was attempting to swallow the house. “This place has been empty for quite a while,” said Coleman.

“They can’t sell homes like this anymore. The taxes alone have to be a half a million dollars.”

“Follow me, I think there’s a service drive over here.” They trudged through the tall grass, staying by the trees.

Adjacent to the main house, and behind a row of tall hedges, they came across a small shed and a dirt road. They followed the path to the main road and stopped at the service gate. Next to the gate was a good-size servant’s house. The windows were also boarded up. They heard a car approaching and ducked down behind some bushes. The car grew louder and louder, and then its headlights lit up the night air.

The undergrowth and trees were thick, and with their dark clothing they were not in danger of being seen. A Mercedes passed and continued around the turn.

Coleman rose from the bushes and inspected the gate. It was a smaller version of the large wrought-iron gate for the main drive to the mansion. It swung open from the middle and was chained and padlocked.

Coleman inspected the lock briefly and then checked the hinges.

Turning to O’Rourke, he said, “I’ve seen all I need, let’s go.”

“Would you mind telling me what you’re thinking?”

“I’m not sure yet. I’m just trying to get a feel for things …. Let’s go.” With Coleman in the lead they worked their way quietly down the service drive, through the tall grass, and back to Arthur’s neighbor’s yard. From there, they descended down the steps to the Bay, where they repacked their gear in the waterproof backpacks and swam back to the boat.

Stroble and Hackett were waiting for them. As soon as Coleman and O’Rourke were on board, they raised the anchor and headed back out into the Bay. Once they reached the

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other side, they turned north for Baltimore. All four of them were gathered on the fly deck. The windscreen shielded them from most of the breeze, but the night air was still frigid. Hackett was telling them that he didn’t think it would be difficult to take Arthur out. “I can’t believe that a guy who’s that paranoid about security is dumb enough to step out in the open like that just to smoke a cigar.”

“They’re all alike … all over the world,” scoffed Stroble. “They all have a weakness.

some little habit that they won’t let go of.”

“How hard do you think it would be to kidnap him?” asked O’Rourke. “A lot harder than shooting him in the head from one hundred and fifty feet,” responded Hackett.

“You’re not really considering that as an option, are you?”

“I would like to get inside his head and find out what in the hell he and Mike Nance were talking about.” O’Rourke looked at Coleman, who was concentrating on the water ahead of them. He knew Coleman was thinking the same thing. Without taking his eyes off the water Coleman said, “It can be done, but we’ll have to take the guards out.”

“Why?”

“Those guys are not your average security guards. If they’re guarding Arthur, that means they’re good.”

“How good?”

“Good enough that if we try to sneak up on them, one of us will end up dead.”

“What about shooting them with a tranquilizer gun?”

Coleman thought about it for a second and asked Hackett, “Any chance we could take them out with tranquilizers?” Hackett shook his head. “Too much wind coming off the

Bay, and the distances are too far. It looked like the guards were wearing body armor, so we’d have to hit them in the neck. From the distances we’d have to shoot, I wouldn’t give us better than a fifty-fifty chance of hitting the mark.” O’Rourke thought about killing the guards. He had killed several Iraqis during the war, but this would be more personal.

“What type of men are they?

Do they work for CIA?”

“No. They’re professional mercenaries. Probably men who have worked for him in the past.” Coleman scanned to the port and starboard sides, checking for any other vessels in the area. “Michael, the only way we can do it is to take the guards out. We can either take Arthur out, without knowing what’s going on, or we can grab him and find out what he and Nance are up to I say we grab him, but the decision is yours.”

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IRENE KENNEDY WAS SOUND ASLEEP. AFTER ARRIVING HOME FROM

THE Pentagon late the previous evening, she didn’t even have the energy to take off her clothes. She plopped down on the covers and was out in seconds.

Through her deep sleep she sensed that she wasn’t alone in her bedroom.

Someone was watching her. She opened her eyes’and saw the intruder.

Looking back at her were a pair of little brown eyes. They belonged to her four-year-old son, Tommy. He was staring at her with a frown on his face and a juice box stuck in his mouth. Irene blinked her eyes several times and tried to rub the sleep out of them.

Tommy pulled the juice box away from his lips and asked, “Why are you sleeping in your clothes?” Irene ignored the question and held out her arms. “Give Mommy a hug.”

Tommy set his beverage down on the nightstand and jumped up onto the big bed.

Irene gave him a warm hug and kissed his forehead.

“How have you been?” she asked as she rubbed her hand through his blond hair.

“Good.” Tommy liked to give one-word answers. “How have you and Mrs. Rosensteel been getting along?”

“Fine. She told me to let you sleep.”

“She’s here?”

“Yep.” Irene bolted upright. “What time is it?”

She looked at the bedside clock and suppressed the urge to swear. She jumped off the bed and picked up Tommy. “Mommy’s late, honey. Go ask Mrs. Rosensteel to make me a cup of coffee, please.” Irene patted him on his little butt and headed for the bathroom.

She showered in under three minutes and got dressed. Today would be a pants day. No time to shave the legs. With her hair still wet she shoved her makeup kit in her purse and headed for the kitchen. Tommy’s nanny handed her a cup of coffee in a large to-go mug, and Irene thanked her. She dropped down to one knee and kissed Tommy on the forehead. “I’ll call you from the office.”

Standing, she added, “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” Tommy waved as she ran out the door. Minutes later Irene was battling traffic on her way downtown. She reminded herself to call her mother and ask her to stop by and see Tommy. Since these assassinations had started, she’d been working some horrible hours and her time with her son had suffered. She violated a half dozen traffic laws on her way to the Hoover Building and had still managed to put on her makeup. She appeared in Skip McMahon’s office less than thirty minutes after Tommy had awakened her, feeling better than one would have expected. “Good morning, Skip.”

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“Good morning, Irene. How are you doing?”

“Pretty good. I finally got more than a couple hours of sleep last night.”

“Good, because we’ve got a full day ahead of us. I just got out of a meeting with

Harvey Wilcox and Madeline Nanny. They have solid surveillance set up on ten of the fourteen suspects and are hoping to have the last four taken care of by this evening. How are you and your people coming along?”

“Good. As of ten P.M. last night we had visual and phone surveillance initiated on all forty-five suspects.” Kennedy took a sip of coffee.

McMahon tapped his foot under the desk and looked at Kennedy, waiting for the good doctor to crack a smile and tell him she was joking.

Kennedy gave no response, and McMahon realized she wasn’t kidding.

McMahon wondered how in the hell the CIA could initiate surveillance on forty-five people in less than thirty-six hours. He was sure that, however they did it, civil rights were being trampled left and right.

The investigative side of McMahon wanted desperately to know how it was done, and the law-abiding Federal-agent side wanted to be kept in the dark. After a brief internal struggle the investigative side won.

“Irene, I have a hard time believing that you have the manpower to watch forty-five people around the clock.”

“We don’t.”

“Then how in the hell are you keeping an eye on all of these people?”

“It’s not about manpower, Skip. It’s technology.”

“What do you mean ‘technology’?” Kennedy grinned. “I’d like to tell you, but it’s probably best if you don’t know. Just trust me that we can, and that we’ll pass whatever we learn on to you as quickly as possible.”

McMahon leaned back in his chair and frustratedly accepted Kennedy’s answer, understanding that it was probably best that he didn’t know.

“I was thinking about your SEAL theory last night. The more I mull it over, the more intrigued I am. If these guys are as smart as we think they are, they would have tried to do something along the way to throw us off their trail.” Kennedy set her coffee cup on the edge of the desk and stood. “I’m glad you brought that up. I need to call General Heaney and ask him about something. Would you dial his office and put it on speaker?” While

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McMahon dialed the number, Kennedy continued, “I was reviewing those personnel files last night and came across something a little unusual.” One of the general’s aides answered, and a moment later Heaney was on the line. “Good morning, Skip. What can I

do for you?”

“General, I’ve got you on speakerphone. Irene is here with me and she has a question for you.” McMahon looked at Kennedy. “Good morning, General. Did you get a chance to look at the file I left on your desk last night?”

“Yes, I read it over first thing this morning.”

“Did you know Commander Coleman?”

“Yes, I did. He was top-notch.”

“I noticed last night that out of all the files I reviewed, Coleman was the only SEAL

who had been granted an early discharge. Is that uncommon?” The general hesitated for a minute. “It is not a common practice, but the brass has been known to make exceptions.”

“Do you know why he was granted an early discharge?” Again, the general paused.

This time for a long enough period that Kennedy knew she had touched on something more than routine.

General Heaney cleared his throat and asked, “Irene, are you familiar with Operation

Snatch Back?”

“Yes, I helped put the pretermission intel together.” For a long period no one talked.

McMahon had no idea what was being discussed, but by the tone of Heaney’s and

Kennedy’s voices he could tell now was not the time to ask. “Did you receive a post mission briefing?”

Heaney asked. “Not a formal one. I only heard rumors.”

“Coleman was the commander of the SEAL team we sent in.”

“His discharge was granted about a month after the mission?”

“Yes.”

“Did he crack up?”

“No … not really.”

“Did he request the early discharge, or was it offered to him?”

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“I’m not aware of the exact circumstances. Admiral Devoe, the force commander for the SEALS, and the secretary of the navy signed off on it.”

“Was Admiral Devoe Coleman’s immediate superior in the chain of command?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think you could track the admiral down and call us back? I’d like to ask him some questions about Coleman.”

“I’ll get him on the line and call you right back,” responded Heaney in his quick, efficient, military tone. McMahon looked up at Kennedy, who was still standing over the phone. “What was that all about?” Kennedy sat down in a chair and closed her eyes. “Do you remember the Pan Am flight that was blown up over Lockerbie, Scotland?”

“Yeah.”

“About fifteen months ago, the Agency located the whereabouts of the two terrorists responsible for the bombing. They were at a small military base in northern Libya. We sent a SEAL team in to take them out …. I’m not sure what happened …. All I know is that we lost part of the team.”

“How many men?”

“Ten.” The phone rang and McMahon grabbed the receiver. “Hello.”

“Skip, General Heaney. I’ve got Admiral Devoe on the line.” McMahon hit the speaker button and placed the receiver back in the cradle.

“Good morning, Admiral, this is Special Agent McMahon with the FBI, and I have

Irene Kennedy from the CIA in my office. We’d like to ask you a few questions.” With a noticeably unenthusiastic tone, the admiral said, “Shoot.” Kennedy stood placing both hands on Skip’s desk and leaning over the phone. “Admiral, has General Heaney told you why we want to talk to you?”

“Yes.”

“Good Would you explain to me the events surrounding your granting of an early discharge for Commander Coleman?”

“Before I answer that, I’d like to know why you want to know.” Kennedy looked at

McMahon, and Skip leaned forward. “Admiral, this is Special Agent McMahon. We are involved in a very important investigation.”

“Is Commander Coleman a suspect?”

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“No,” answered McMahon. “Is that no, or not yet?”

“General Heaney, can you help me out here?” asked McMahon.

“Bob, this is some pretty serious stuff. I’ve been working with Skip and Irene for the last five days. They’re straight shooters.” Devoe thought about it and responded, “I will answer what I can.” Kennedy rephrased her question. “Admiral, did Commander

Coleman ask you for an early discharge, or did you offer it to him?”

“He asked for it.”

“Why?”

“He was unhappy about a certain issue.”

“Did that issue have anything to do with Operation Snatch Back?” asked Kennedy. “I

am not at liberty to discuss that subject.” This time it was Kennedy’s turn to ask Heaney for help. “General?”

“Bob, Irene did the pretermission intel for Snatch Back.

She has a higher clearance than you or I do.” Kennedy repeated the question. “Did that issue have anything to do with Operation Snatch Back?”

“Yes,” answered Devoe. “Did he want out because the mission was a failure?”

“Not exactly. He was more upset about something that happened after the mission.”

“What?” After a reluctant pause, Devoe said, “Listen, I know where you’re headed with this, and I know the type of pressure you’re going to be under to make some arrests.

I can tell you right now Scott Coleman has nothing to do with these assassinations ….

None of my boys do. I’ve been having nightmares about this ever since I heard you showed up at JSOC five days ago. If you dig, you’ll find enough motive to indict every single one of my SEALS. None of them are really enamored of the behavior on Capitol

Hill. Most of them have voiced opinions on the subject of who they think is fucking this country up-excuse my French—but that doesn’t mean they killed anyone.”

“Admiral, we understand that,” said McMahon. “We have already discussed this universal dislike of politicians with General Heaney, and we respect the sacrifice these men have made for America. I am running this investigation, and I’m not going to arrest anyone unless I have some solid evidence to back me up.”

“Special Agent McMahon, pardon my candor, but you are fooling yourself if you think you’ve got the final say in this investigation. You have another month, at the most,

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before those peacocks on the Hill start screaming for hearings, and when that happens, they’ll make the people in my profession look like a bunch of crazed killers.”

“Admiral, I don’t give a crap about what the politicians want.”

McMahon’s voice grew louder. “I’m trying to find out who in the hell is behind these murders. We have a very strong reason to believe the assassins are American commandos. General Heaney, will you back me up on this?”

“He’s telling the truth, Bob.” Kennedy placed a hand on her hip.

“Admiral, why did Commander Coleman ask for an early discharge?”

“Is this conversation being taped?”

“No,” answered McMahon.

“I’ll tell you why, but this is completely off-the-record. If this thing turns into a circus trial, I’ll deny I ever said it.”

“It’s off-the-record, sir,” said Kennedy. McMahon looked up at Kennedy and mouthed the word no. Kennedy shushed him with a wave of her hand.

“Are you familiar with the objective of Operation Snatch Back?” They answered yes and Devoe continued, “We sent in a SEAL team. Coleman was the commander. He took half the team and went in first. They were inserted about two miles out from the camp, and they moved in and set up perimeter positions. They were to take out the sentries and provide cover for the second group that was to be vertically inserted by helicopter into the camp. The second group’s responsibility was to take the terrorists alive if possible.

“Coleman moved into position and then ordered the second group in. The choppers came in low and quiet. Right before they reached the camp, Coleman’s men took out the sentries as planned. The Black Hawk stopped above the camp, and before the second group could rappel to the ground, the chopper was blown out of the sky by a barrage of rocket-propelled grenades. “Eight men and the two pilots, just like that …. Coleman and his team were extracted, and during their debriefing, every one of them stated that they thought the Libyans were waiting for them. They said everything looked good, and then within the blink of an eye a dozen rag heads appeared with RPGS.

Coleman took it harder than the rest of us because he ordered the second team in …

he blamed himself for their deaths. “We weren’t convinced the mission had been blown until several weeks later when I received word that the FBI had discovered a leak. I told

Coleman the news, thinking it would help him put the blame elsewhere, but it didn’t work.

He wanted to know where the leak came from, and I told him I didn’t know. A couple weeks later he came to me and said he wanted out. I asked why, and he said he’d lost

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faith. I tried to talk him out of it, but he wouldn’t listen. Scott was a good officer. He’d been a SEAL for almost fifteen years. I figured he’d given more than enough to the Navy, so I got him the early discharge.”

“Admiral, who told you that the FBI found a leak?” asked McMahon. “I would rather not say.”

“Did this person say where the leak came from?”

“They said it was a prominent politician.”

“Did they tell you who that politician was?”

“No.”

“Did you tell Commander Coleman that the leak came from a politician?”

There was a moment of silence, then the admiral answered, “Yes.”

McMahon and Kennedy looked at each other. Both were thinking the same thing.

McMahon looked back at the phone. “How did Coleman react to the information?”

“Like all of us did. He was pissed, but, gentlemen, I can assure you Commander

Coleman is not your man.” Kennedy raised her eyebrows in a doubtful manner and

McMahon said, “Admiral, that’s all the questions we have for now. I’m going to ask that you not tell anyone about our conversation, especially Mr. Coleman. I promise that either myself or General Heaney will keep you informed about any part of the investigation that may involve you. General Heaney, we have a meeting with Director Roach that should last an hour or so. Could you meet Irene and me in my office around ten A.M.?”

“I’ll be there.”

“Thank you, gentlemen.” McMahon hit the speaker button and disconnected the line.

He looked up at Kennedy, who was still standing, and asked, “How many prominent politicians would have known about Operation Snatch Back beforehand?” Kennedy shrugged her shoulders. “The way those guys gossip, you can never be sure, but according to law, the President and a ranking member of the Senate Intelligence

Committee must be informed before we run a covert operation.”

“Who were the two ranking members of the Senate Intelligence Committee a year and a half ago?”

“Erik Olson and Daniel Fitzgerald.”

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“Isn’t that a coincidence. They’re both dead.” McMahon stood and put on his jacket.

“Let’s go talk to Brian and see if we can find out who this mystery politician is.”

“I think I already know who it is,” Kennedy said with a glum look on her face.

“Who?”

“Fitzgerald.”

“Why?”

“He resigned from the Intelligence Committee about a year ago, claiming that he needed to focus more of his energy on the Finance Committee.”

McMahon led the way down the hall and up the two flights of stairs.

Skip greeted Roach’s assistant and told her that he needed to see the boss immediately. She buzzed Roach, and a minute later McMahon and Kennedy were let in.

Roach was sitting at his conference table surrounded by the usual stacks of files and papers. He stood and greeted the visitors, professional as always. “How’s the investigation going?”

“We may have come across a break.” McMahon looked over his shoulder to make sure the door was closed and then asked, “What do you know about a covert mission called Operation Snatch Back?” Roach looked more than a little surprised. “Where did you hear about Operation Snatch Back?

That’s classified.” Roach turned to Kennedy. “Did you tell him?”

“Not in the way you’re thinking. We stumbled across it in our investigation.”

“How?”

“Irene was looking into the file of a former Navy SEAL and the name came up.”

“In what way did it come up?” Kennedy stepped forward. “About a month after the mission, one of SEALS involved in the operation received an early discharge. We talked to his commanding officer and found out some interesting things.”

“Go on,” commanded Roach.

“Admiral Devoe, the force commander for the SEALS, told us that the officer in question, Commander Scott Coleman, was in charge of the SEAL team that participated in Operation Snatch Back. After the mission, Coleman stated that he thought the Libyans had set a trap. He also blamed himself for the loss of his men because he ordered them in.

A couple of weeks after the mission, Admiral Devoe finds out that the FBI has identified who leaked the mission. The admiral passes the information on to Coleman, telling him

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that he doesn’t know who leaked the mission, only that it was a prominent politician.

Shortly after that, Coleman demands an early discharge and gets it. So far none of this adds up to anything hard, but if the prominent politician who leaked that mission happened to be Senator Daniel Fitzgerald, then we have a possible motive.” Roach looked more than a little surprised and asked, “What makes you think it was Fitzgerald?”

“An educated guess,” said Kennedy. “Was it Fitzgerald?”

“Yes …. Both of you take a seat. This is more complicated than it looks.” McMahon and Kennedy sat in the two chairs in front of Roach’s desk, and the director sat on the edge of his desk. “What I’m about to tell you does not leave this room …. Fitzgerald was the one who leaked the mission. He didn’t do it intentionally, and that is why he was never prosecuted. In fact, we stumbled across it in an unusual way. Our Counter

Espionage Department regularly reviews the tax returns, asset portfolios, and credit history of certain people that, by the nature of their jobs, come in contact with government employees that have access to sensitive information-people like journalists, attorneys, secretaries, lobbyists, even waitresses and bartenders.

Last year, one of our agents was reviewing the tax returns for all of the employees that worked at a local restaurant. She discovered that one of the bartenders had purchased a two-hundred-thousand dollar condo in Georgetown. The guy only makes about thirty thousand a year, so a red flag pops up. She calls the mortgage company and finds out the person in question put down sixty grand for the down payment on the condo. A little more investigating and she rules out that the money came from his parents. We think the guy is probably selling drugs, but there’s an outside chance he may be talking to people we don’t want him talking to.

A lot of big hitters frequent the establishment where he works, and after a few drinks these politicians and their staffers have been known to discuss things they shouldn’t in public. “We decided there was enough to put this bartender under surveillance. We wired the bar, his condo, and tapped his phone.” Roach shook his head. “Two days before

Operation Snatch Back was to commence, Fitzgerald gets done with work and stops by for a couple of drinks. The nightly news is on and they run a segment on the anniversary of the downing of the Pan Am flight over Lockerbie. The reporter ends the segment saying that the two men suspected of planting the bomb are believed to be hiding in

Libya.

Fitzgerald responds out loud, ‘Not for long,’ and the bartender asks what he means.

Fitzgerald says, ‘Between you and me, kid, those two bastards are going to be sitting in a

U.S. jail in about forty-eight hours.” The kid asks how, if they’re in Libya, and Fitzgerald tells him he can’t go into it. “At the time this meant nothing to our people that were on the case, but after Snatch Back failed, the CIA gave our Counter Espionage people a heads—

up warning that the mission may have been compromised. One of the names on the list of people that knew about the mission beforehand was Senator Fitzgerald. Our agents put two and two together and hauled the bartender in for a shakedown. They told him he was either going to spend the next twenty years in a Federal pen or he could spill the beans ….

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He spilled the beans. The guy thought he was passing the information on to a reporter. It turns out the reporter is a former KGB agent who is now operating for himself and selling his secrets abroad. The rest of the story is highly classified, and I can’t go into what we found out It’s an ongoing operation.”

“You’re using the kid to feed him misinformation, aren’t you?” Kennedy waited for an answer. Roach shrugged his shoulders and said, “Director Stansfield knows all about it.

We’re working in cooperation with the Agency.” Roach walked around to the other side of his desk and sat.

McMahon sat forward and said, “I’m going to have to talk to everyone who was involved in this.”

“No, you’re not,” answered Roach. “Brian, if this Coleman is our guy, all of this information about Fitzgerald is going to have to come out in the indictment.”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it, but for now I don’t want Fitzgerald’s name and Operation Snatch Back mentioned in the same sentence. Do what you have to do to investigate Coleman, but keep Fitzgerald out of it. I assume I can get ahold of Admiral

Devoe at the Pentagon?”

“No, he’s down in Norfolk.”

“All right, I’ll talk to him personally, and you’d better put a list together of all the people that know Snatch Back was leaked.

Madeline Nanny is going to want to talk to you about this.” Mike Nance took the short walk from his corner office to Stu Garret’s. Passing Garret’s secretary, he smiled and said hello. The door was open and Nance closed it behind him. Nance sat in one of the armchairs and crossed his legs. “How is the President today?” Garret finished what he was writing and pushed himself away from the desk. Taking his cigarette out of his mouth, he blew a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling and said, “He’s doing great. We just got the results back from the most recent Time/CNN poll, and almost seventy percent of the people surveyed are behind his decision to get the military involved.” Garret shoved the cigarette back in his mouth and took a deep drag. “He’s very happy. Much more relaxed.”

“Good.” Nance looked down and flicked a speck of lint from his wool pants. “How are you doing?”

“Fine. I could use a little more sleep, but otherwise I feel pretty good.”

“Are you more at ease than you were yesterday?”

“Yes.” Garret was slightly embarrassed by the question. “I had a meeting with our friend last night.”

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“How is he doing?”

“Not well. He’s very uneasy about your lack of emotional control.”

Garret’s face went flush, and he stabbed his cigarette out in the ashtray. “Why?”

“He heard about your demeanor in the meeting the other day.”

“What meeting?”

“The one where Special Agent McMahon played the tape of his conversation with the terrorist.”

“Why did you have to tell him about that?”

“I didn’t. Someone else did.”

“Who?” “One never knows with Arthur, Stu. He has a lot of contacts.”

“What did he say?”

“He’s concerned that you won’t be able to keep your mouth shut.”

“Who am I going to tell?” Nance turned his palms upward and raised his eyebrows.

“Come on, Mike. I’m not that stupid. If I talk, I go down too.”

“I agree, but he doesn’t.”

“Why? I haven’t done a fucking thing to make him think I would say anything. Why in the hell would I say anything? I’d be cutting my own throat.”

“I agree, but he seems to think that you might fold under pressure. He thinks if someone were to put the screws to you, you’d talk in order to save yourself.”

“That’s ludicrous.” Garret grabbed his pack of Marlboros with a shaky hand and fished out a fresh cigarette. “He wants me to give you a message.” Nance rose from his chair and walked around the desk.

Leaning into Garret’s ear, he whispered, “Arthur says if you breathe a word of this to anyone, he will have you killed.” Garret dropped his cigarette and stood. “Why?”

Nance put a hand on his shoulder. “Just calm down, Stu, and you’ll have nothing to worry about.”

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MICHAEL O’ROURKE AND SCOTT COLEMAN WERE RUNNING A COUPLE

OF minutes late. They had met at the cabin earlier and finalized the plans for the mission.

Because of the lack of preparation time, they had decided to keep things as simple as possible. If Arthur stepped out to smoke a cigar, they would grab him.

If he didn’t, they would have to try again the next night. Storming the house was out of the question. The sun had set at about 5:40 P.M and the rural Maryland roads were crowded with commuters going home after work. The black BMW cruised along with traffic and then turned off the busy county road and onto one of the narrow and quiet streets of the Curtis Point neighborhood. Coleman was driving and had his night-vision goggles perched on his forehead. He reached up and pulled the microphone from his headset down in front of his mouth. “Hermes and Cyclops, this is Zeus, come in, over.”

He kept his eyes fixed on the road and waited for the response. “This is Hermes, over.”

“Are you in position, over?”

“That’s affirmative, we’re in position, over.”

“We’re about three miles out. Have the gate ready to go, and I’ll give you the word right before we round the corner. Check the road for foot traffic, and let me know if there are any cars coming from the other direction, over.”

“Roger, over.” Michael opened the glove box and pulled off the cover to the fuses.

Holding a small penlight in his left hand, he located the fuse for the car’s exterior lights and got ready to pull it. They continued to wind down the curvy road, passing the large houses. When they were less than a mile from the old estate, Coleman spoke into his mike again.

“Hermes, how does everything look, over?”

“The coast is clear, over.”

“Open the gate.” Coleman looked at O’Rourke and nodded. O’Rourke pulled the fuse, and the headlights and rear running lights were extinguished.

The thick cloud cover overhead, combined with the lack of streetlights on the narrow, wooded road, cut the visibility to nothing. Coleman pulled down his night-vision goggles

‘. and quickly adjusted his eyes.

He took his foot off the gas and coasted. They passed the main gate of the old estate, and Coleman put some pressure on the brakes. About 150 feet later, they reached the service drive, and Coleman turned hard.

The black car slipped onto the overgrown drive and squeezed through the encroaching trees and bushes, disappearing from sight. Stroble quickly closed the gate and wrapped the chain around the post. He stood guard for a minute, looking up and

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down the road waiting to see if anyone else approached, and then went down the path to join the others. When he arrived at the small shed, Coleman had already turned the car around in the tall grass so it was pointing back toward the road. Coleman, O’Rourke, and

Hackett were standing by the open trunk. Hackett handed them their MP-5s and Coleman and O’Rourke checked to make sure a round was chambered. When Stroble joined the group, Coleman checked his watch and brought everyone in. “What did you do with the

Zodiac?”

“We sank it about a mile offshore and swam in,” responded Stroble.

“Good. Let’s go over this thing once and then get into position. We don’t want to miss him. Stop me if you have any questions. What’s the status on the boat next door?”

“It has a full tank of gas, and the battery is fine,” said Hackett.

“Are you going to have to hot-wire her?”

“No, we found an extra set of keys under the seat cushions.”

“Good …. Okay, once from the top.” Coleman pointed at Hackett and Stroble. “You two move into position on the north side of the house.

Kevin, you’re in the same tree you were in last night. From there you can cover the entire backyard.

Dan, you are in your spot by the front of the house, and Michael and I are just opposite the patio on this side of the fence. When we get into position, the first thing all of us do is make sure our ropes are secure. Then we sit tight, watch the guards, and wait.

The surveillance reports that Michael got say he steps out for a cigar almost every night, unless it’s raining. Sometimes he stays out there for hours, sometimes for only a couple of minutes. The point being.

if he shows, we move fast.” Coleman looked up at the dark sky. “The forecast calls for possible showers, so we’ll have to wait and see. If he comes out, we wait for him to move to the edge of the patio, as far away from the house as possible, and then depending on what the guards are doing, we make our move.”

“What if he’s not alone?” asked Hackett. Coleman looked to Michael, who thought about it and answered, “I’ll make the call on the spot.”

“Back to the guards,” said Coleman. “If they stick to their routines, one of them will stay by the front door, and the other one will patrol the sides and rear of the house with the dog. There’s another one at the front gate, but I don’t think he’ll leave the guardhouse.

That leaves one more in the house, and after we take the cameras out, he’ll be blind.

“Assuming everything goes right, and Arthur steps out, I will ask the two of you if you

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have a clear shot. Kevin, you’ve got the guard in back and Dan you’ve got the one by the front door. As soon as I get a positive answer from both of you, I’ll say ‘bingo.”

Shoot the guards first and then the dogs. At that point, Michael and I

swing over the fence in the backyard, and Dan comes over in the front.

The second we hit the ground, the security control board inside the house is going to light up. I don’t know for sure, but it’s my guess that the guard inside will hit those floodlights that we saw last night. Don’t worry about them right away. Take the cameras out first.

There are two sets of cameras mounted on each of the four corners of the house. Dan, you take out the ones in front and then take out the floodlights closest to the house. While you’re running from one side of the house to the other, I want you to fire some shots at the windows.

It’ll set off more alarms inside and keep that fourth guard busy.”

Coleman turned to Hackett. “There are four floodlights in the backyard.

I want you to pop them ASAP and then cover us.” Looking back at Stroble, he said, “Now for the tricky part. The surveillance report says that Arthur is outfitted with a homing device and alarm. He has a lot of secrets in his head, and the CIA doesn’t want someone getting ahold of them. I don’t know if this homing device is sewn into his clothes or in his shoe or in his watch, so Michael and I have decided not to take any chances. We’re going to strip him naked and put everything in a bag.

Dan, when you reach the patio, we should have everything ready to go.

Michael will give you the bag, and then I want you to get down to the boat as fast as possible and get the engines warmed up.” Coleman pointed at Hackett. “Kevin, you stay in the tree and cover Michael and me until we are over the wall with Arthur. The second we’re clear, get the hell out of the tree and down to the boat.”

“What do I do if the owner of the house hears the engines start and comes out to see what’s going on?” asked Hackett. “Scare him away with a couple of warning shots.”

“What if he has a gun?”

“If he keeps coming at you, kneecap him. Once both of you are on the boat, I want you to head straight out into the Bay. No one is going to be around to cover you, and I

don’t want one of the guards taking potshots at you from the cliff. When you are about three hundred yards from shore, head south. Run at full throttle and keep your running lights off. I’m estimating that you should be able to do about seventy knots in that boat. If the CIA is on the ball, I’m estimating that the quickest they could get a chopper up to

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intercept you would be fifteen minutes from the time the alarm is sounded. Kevin, after you’re done taking the guard out, mark the time. At seventy knots it should take you approximately fifteen minutes to reach Cove Point. Seventeen minutes after we go over the wall, I want both of you out of the boat!

Even if you haven’t made it to Cove Point, jump ship. I don’t want you on board a second longer. Tim O’Rourke will be waiting to pick you up.

He has a radio and a red filter light. When you go over, ask him to give you a signal for bearing.” Coleman paused and looked all of them in the eye.

“I know we’re not as prepared for this as we’d like to be, but we don’t have the time.

Just stay cool and everything will be fine. Any questions?” They all shook their heads, and then Coleman went to the trunk of the car. He grabbed four bundles of rope and handed one to each man. “Let’s get moving. Be careful and stay cool.” Coleman patted each of them on the shoulder as they started down the path. The former SEAL team commander took up the rear and fell in step. The four dark figures moved one by one into the black night. Six floors beneath the main level of the Central Intelligence Agency was a room that never slept. The Operations Center of the CIA was the Agency’s version of

NASA’s Mission Control. But instead of monitoring space missions, these men and women monitored spy missions. They were in constant contact with every U.S. embassy and consulate around the globe. The men and women who worked in the Operations

Center were not in charge of running spy operations.

Their function was to serve as the main communications link between the field and the rest of the Agency. Information was what the Agency was all about, and disseminating it in a quick, secretive, and orderly fashion was crucial to the overall mission. The Operations Center was divided into four separate clusters of desks. In the front of the room, beneath three twelve-by-twelve-foot computer-projection screens, was the European Section. The section had one supervisor and three operators who handled

Western Europe, Eastern Europe, and the former Soviet republics.

The next section handled the Middle East and Africa. The third section monitored

Asia and the South Pacific, and the last section handled Central America, South America, and the United States. In the rear of the room, elevated and watching over the section supervisors and operators, were two watch officers. Just behind them, elevated still farther and behind a wall of Plexiglas, was the Operations Center’s watch commander.

The room was softly lit and comfortable. Every operator had three monitors on his or her desk and multiple phone lines. To battle boredom, they were encouraged to read or play computer games while on watch. If they received any flash traffic, their computers would beep, letting them know it was time to pay attention. The supervisors and watch commanders often kept the operators on their toes by running drills. Day to day, the

Operations Center was one of the most boring places in the Agency to work, but when a crisis erupted, it was one of the most exciting. Charlie Dobbs sat behind the Plexiglas wall of the watch commander’s office and looked at the computer monitor to his far left.

A chessboard was on the screen. Charlie was sixteen moves into the game at the grand—

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master level and was holding his own. The computer monitor to the right beeped once, and his eyes jumped from one screen to the other. A routine message was coming in from the Tokyo embassy.

Charlie noted that it was on time and went back to calculating what the computer’s next move would be. Five computers were on Dobbs’s desk, and at any time he could check on his operators and see what they were doing. He could do this manually or let the system run on automatic.

Messages came in off their satellite system and were encoded with a number designating their importance. Routine traffic came in preceded by the number one, and emergency traffic came in preceded by the number five. The computer prioritized these messages and queued them according to their importance. Level five traffic was not uncommon during a crisis in a given region, but since the global scene had been pretty quiet for the last several weeks, Dobbs was expecting a slow night.

When they reached the large yard to the south of Arthur’s estate, Stroble and Hackett headed for the stairs that led down to the water.

Michael and Coleman watched from the trees with their night-vision goggles.

Michael kept an eye on the neighbor’s house and Coleman watched his two men.

Stroble and Hackett disappeared down the stairs. From there, they were to get in the water and swim past Arthur’s to the neighbor’s just to the north, where the Cigarette boat was docked. Coleman and Michael ran across the open lawn to the brick wall that separated Arthur’s compound from the neighbor to the south. They found the large oak tree that they had scouted out the night before and climbed it in silence.

Stopping at the first rung of branches, they pulled their night-vision goggles back down and surveyed Arthur’s estate. The wall was ten feet high and the base of the tree was about six feet away from it. No one was in sight, so Coleman climbed another ten feet up the tree and scooted out onto a thick branch that hung just over the wall. He tied both ropes around the branch and carried the remainder of the bundle back down.

Michael stood on the east side of the base of the tree and Coleman stood on the west side.

Both of them hung on to branches that jutted out from overhead.

Michael was just about to comment on how difficult it was going to be to hang out in this tree all night when a guard and dog came around the side of the house. Michael and

Coleman moved as close to the main trunk as possible. The old oak still had most of its leaves, although they had turned to a dry, dark maroon. They would be safe unless the guard got close and shone a light on them from underneath. The guard continued his walk past the patio and down toward the water. Coleman spoke into his mike. “Hermes and

Cyclops, this is Zeus, where are you, over?” Coleman watched the guard while he waited for the reply.

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Hackett and Stroble were on the narrow shoreline next to the dock unpacking their weapons when the call came over their headsets.

Hackett responded, “We just got out of the water and are getting ready to move up the stairs, over.”

“You’ve got a guard and a dog approaching the cliff. You have about ten seconds before he gets there, so hurry up, over!” Without hesitation, they grabbed their waterproof backpacks and scurried up the steep, zigzagging flight of stairs. The whole time, they looked to their left waiting for the guard to appear a mere hundred feet away.

They reached the top with seconds to spare. While Coleman was watching the guard, Michael kept an eye on the house. He listened to Coleman give Hackett and Stroble a second-by-second update of what the guard was doing.

Seconds after Coleman announced that the guard had reached the edge of the cliff, the

French doors of Arthur’s study opened, and the owner of the estate strode out onto the brick veranda. Michael felt his heartbeat quicken as he watched Arthur approach the far edge. As quietly as possible, he whispered to Coleman, “Our target has appeared.

I repeat, our target has appeared, over.” Coleman turned around just in time to see the bright orange flame of Arthur’s lighter licking away at the tip of the cigar. Hackett and

Stroble were asking for a verification, and Coleman gave it to them. “Hermes and

Cyclops, our target is in sight, and I have no idea how long he’s going to be there.

Move into position as quickly as possible, and give me the play-by-play, over.”

Hackett and Stroble ran toward the tree where Hackett had sat the night before and stopped at the base. Hackett whispered into his mike, “How many guards in the backyard, over?”

“One guard, over,” answered Coleman. Coleman leaned around the back side of the tree and whispered to Michael, “You keep an eye on Arthur, and I’ll watch the guard.”

O’Rourke nodded.

Stroble and Hackett quickly affixed the silencers to the end of their weapons and put on their backpacks. Stroble slung his MP-5 over his shoulder and clasped his hands in front of his stomach. Hackett slung his rifle over his back and put his right foot in

Stroble’s clasped hands. Stroble boosted Hackett up and he grabbed the first branch, pulling himself quietly into the tree. Not wasting any time, Stroble turned and ran along the wall toward the front of the house. When he reached the tree where he had been the night before, he stopped and checked for noise. Then, pulling himself up into the tree, he looked for the guard standing by the front door. He peered over the top of the wall and saw nothing. Quietly, he swore to himself and then called Coleman.

“Zeus, this is Hermes. I’ve got a problem. The guard by the front door is not at his post, over.”

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“Can you see him anywhere in the front yard, over?”

“That’s a negative, over.”

“Get your rope set up, and we’ll wait as long as we can, over.”

Coleman stayed calm, telling himself these things never went exactly as planned.

“Gentlemen, let’s be patient. Get ready to go on a moment’s notice.

As soon as the other guard appears, we’ll move, over.” Now that Hackett was in position, Coleman could watch Arthur. He judged the distance between Arthur and the house to be about forty feet. There was no way he could beat him to the door, so he would have to fire some warning shots in his path. He’d thought about shooting him in the leg, but the old man might bleed to death before they found out what they needed to know. Stroble’s voice came over their headsets.

“The missing guard just appeared from inside the house, over.” Coleman took a deep breath and stared at Arthur, who was puffing away on his cigar. “Do we have any other surprises, over?” One by one they responded that they were ready to go. Coleman gave

Michael the thumbs-up signal and they grabbed their ropes. “Cyclops, do you have a clear shot, over?”

“That’s a roger, over.”

“Hermes, do you have a clear shot, over?”

“That’s a roger, over.” Coleman took one more deep breath and said, “On my mark, boys. Three … two … one … bingo!” Hackett squeezed the trigger and sent a bullet smashing into the head of the guard by the cliff and then pumped a quick round into the dog. Out in front of the house Stroble fired three silent shots at the head of the guard by the front door. The first one hit him in the temple, killing him instantly.

Grabbing the rope, Stroble swung from the tree and landed just on the other side of the fence. Stroble dropped to one knee and searched for the dog. It was nowhere in sight.

Without hesitation, he snapped his gun up toward the roof and squeezed off a dozen shots. The bullets thudded into the metal casings that covered the cameras, sending sparks flying.

He heard a growl to his right, and the thick, black muzzle of the silencer snapped back to a level position, sweeping from left to right.

The dog was closing fast, growling as he ran. Stroble sent one bullet into the snout of the dog, and the creature skidded to the ground.

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Slamming a fresh magazine into his gun, Stroble rose and ran for the other set of cameras, firing bullets into the windows as he went.

Coleman hit the ground a second before Michael, and as he sprinted for the patio, he could hear the bullets from Michael’s gun striking the cameras above and to his left. The noise of the bullets hitting the cameras must have caught Arthur’s attention because he looked in their direction. Coleman thought he was reaching for a gun at first, and then he noticed that it was his watch. Arthur broke into a decrepit run for the house, and Coleman laid down a wall of bullets that sent chips of brick flying into the air. Arthur stopped in his tracks. As Coleman closed on him, he screamed for Arthur to put his hands in the air while he unleashed a volley of bullets at the second set of cameras. Just as he got to

Arthur, the floodlights came on. Coleman brought his boot up and kicked Arthur in the stomach, sending him to the ground. Coleman wheeled, firing at the floodlights hanging from the gutter of the house.

Michael did the same, and within seconds, darkness was restored.

Arthur was curled up and holding on to his stomach with both hands, gasping for air.

Michael pulled a chloroform patch from his thigh pocket and ripped it open. Shoving his gloved hand into Arthur’s face, he forced the old man to breathe in the fumes. After about ten seconds, Michael tossed the patch to the side and went to work on getting Arthur’s clothes off. Less than thirty seconds had passed since they’d gone over the fence. Stroble approached a moment later and helped Michael finish the job. Before leaving, he made sure everything was in the bag and then sprinted for the north wall. All that remained on

Arthur were his boxers. Michael threw the skinny old man over his shoulder and ran for the south wall with Coleman covering the way. When they reached the wall, Coleman jumped up, sat on the top of the wall, and pulled Arthur up by his arms.

Michael went up and over, and then Coleman dropped Arthur into Michael’s arms.

Coleman jumped down and the three of them disappeared into the darkness and onto the grounds of the old estate. Hackett watched from the tree and made sure Michael and

Coleman got over the wall safely. As soon as they were over, he fired three shots into the door of Arthur’s study and rappelled down the tree. He landed like a cat and turned for the cliff. By the time he reached the top of the steps, he could hear the twin engines of the

Cigarette boat revving.

He bounded down the steps, taking them three at a time. When he hit the dock, he broke into a dash for the boat. Stroble already had the boat turned around and pointing toward the open water. Hackett leapt through the air and landed on the cushioned pad that covered the engines and then he jumped into the cockpit. Both engines roared to life as

Stroble punched the two black throttles all the way down. The bow rose out of the water as the props forced the boat forward.

Hackett turned and scanned the cliff for any movement. The long, sleek boat quickly gained speed and planed out.

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Stroble checked his watch. One minute and forty-three seconds had elapsed since they’d gone over the wall. CHARLIE DOBBS WAS CONTEMPLATING HIS NEXT

MOVE WHEN The MONITOR to his right started beeping. Dobbs glanced over his shoulder after the second beep and moved his chair. The monitor beeped three’ more times, and the information came up on the screen. active personal ALARM subject

CODE NAME: RED COYOTE Dobbs stared at the code name and tried to match it with a face but couldn’t. These personal alarms had become kind of a pain in the ass for the

Operations Center. They were receiving more and more false alarms. Dobbs punched in his password so he could access the real identity of Red Coyote. A second later, the name

Arthur Higgins appeared on the screen. That’s a first for him, Dobbs thought. No need to get excited yet. He probably hit it by mistake.

Dobbs looked through the Plexiglas and watched the operator for the United States work to verify the alarm. The home phone number for Red Coyote came up on the screen along with several others.

Dobbs tapped in a keystroke so he could listen to the operator handle the situation.

Their system told them that the alarm was coming from his estate, but no one was answering. He listened to the phone ring.

After about thirty seconds, Dobbs started to get nervous. The file on Red Coyote said that he had around-the-clock security. Someone should have been answering the phone.

A second later, a frantic voice did.

Director Stansfield was sitting at his desk reading a report on the mental stability of

North Korea’s leadership. Because of the recent flurry of assassinations his regular work was suffering. He didn’t like falling behind, there were too many potential problems just over the horizon. As director of the Agency, Stansfield saw it as his job to know and understand who the players were in each country that had an adversarial relationship with the United States. When things turned sour, he wanted to be able to predict the behavior of the men he was up against. The phone rang and Stansfield removed his spectacles, rubbed his eyes, and then picked it up. “Hello.”

“Thomas, it’s Charlie. We’ve got a major problem! Someone just grabbed Arthur

Higgins!” Stansfield sat up straight. “How long ago?”

“His personal alarm went off about four minutes ago. We called his estate and one of the security guards verified that they’d been hit.”

“I’m on my way down.” Stansfield hung up the phone and headed for the door. When he reached the outer room, his bodyguard looked up from behind a desk and Stansfield said, “Come on, we’re going downstairs.”

The director continued into the hallway and shoved his ID card into the slot next to the elevator. Five seconds later, the doors opened and they stepped in. While the elevator descended, Stansfield battled to suppress the hope that Arthur had been killed. He hoped

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so for two reasons. The first, which embarrassed him, was personal. Arthur had ignored

Stansfield’s warnings to cease his activities in the intelligence community. He was a growing security risk and a thorn in Stansfield’s side. The second reason was purely professional. If Arthur was dead, he couldn’t be interrogated. He had more damaging secrets in his head than any other person in the Agency.

Arthur had conducted unofficial operations that no one else knew about, and his knowledge of official CIA operations was thorough. If he was taken alive and interrogated, the Agency would be compromised at every level. The damage would be unimaginable. The elevator opened and Stansfield approached the door to the Operations

Center. He placed his hand on a scanner, and a second later the door opened. Charlie

Dobbs was standing with his watch officers conferring on the crisis.

Stansfield approached. “Give me the rundown.”

“We’re tracking his homing signal right now.” Dobbs pointed at the big screen in the front of the room. A detailed map of the Chesapeake was on the screen and a slow—

moving red dot. “It appears they’ve got him on board a boat and are making a run for the open sea.”

“Do we know how it happened?”

“We’ve talked to the guard who was running the control room inside Arthur’s house.

He says Arthur stepped outside to smoke a cigar, and then they came over the wall. He isn’t sure how many of them there were because they shot his cameras out. Two of the guards are dead, and there is no sign of Arthur.”

“What procedures have we put into effect?”

“We’ve scrambled two Cobra gunships out of Quantico and an AWAC was on patrol when the whole thing went down. The AWAC has confirmed our bogie and has classified it as a small watercraft moving at a speed of sixty-two knots. I have also notified the

Coast Guard, and they are moving to set up a picket at the south end of the Bay.”

“How long will it take for the choppers to intercept?”

“If there is no course change, they should intercept in about ten minutes.” They all looked at the big board and watched the moving red dot. “I also activated two of our security details. I’m sending one to the estate to investigate, and the other will be airborne within the next two minutes. I’m sending them after the boat.”

Stansfield shook his head. “Charlie, do whatever it takes to get him back.” Stroble peered over the top of the windscreen, his night-vision goggles helping slightly, but not much. The stars and moon were blocked out by the thick clouds, and the water was black.

He kept the boat just to the west of the channel markers. The Chesapeake was notorious for unmarked sandbars, and now would not be a good time to run aground on one.

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Hackett came out from the small cabin and announced that the charges were set. He kept his night-vision goggles up on the top of his head and checked the sky and water behind them.

They were less than a minute away from their demarcation point.

Hackett threw their weapons and equipment over the side, everything except their fins and mask.

Taking two short pieces of rope, Stroble tied the steering wheel down so the boat would stay on a straight course. He looked at his watch and gave Hackett a thumbs-up.

Hackett got on top of the engine cover and without hesitation dove off the back of the boat, curling into a ball.

As soon as Hackett was away, Stroble flipped on the running lights, grabbed his fins and mask, and ran for the back of the boat. He leapt clear of the propellers and also tucked into a tight ball. He hit the water and skipped several times, rolling as he went.

Their bodies stung slightly from the initial impact, but otherwise they were fine.

Hackett appeared at Stroble’s side, and they paused for a second to watch the boat rumble away. They put on their fins and masks and started swimming as fast as they could for shore. They had a little over a mile to go.

Before leaving the boat, Hackett had placed a series of small, timed charges that would rip holes in the bottom of the boat’s hull. They pumped their arms powerfully through the water, their fins doing most of the work. Shortly, they were within two hundred yards of shore.

Hackett stopped and so did Stroble. Sticking his hand into the neck of is scuba suit, Hackett pulled out his radio headset. Without putting it on he held the unit next to his ear and said, “Mercury, this is Cyclops, come in, over.”

“I read you loud and clear, Cyclops, over.” Hackett and Stroble bobbed up and down in the water, staring at the dark shoreline.

“Can you give us a mark on your position, over?” They both saw the flicker of red light. Marking the position with a dip in the tree line, Hackett responded, “I’ve got a fix.

We’ll be joining you in a couple of minutes, over.” Hackett shoved the headset back under his suit and was getting ready to swim again when he heard an all too familiar noise.

Stroble heard it, too, and they both sank a little deeper in the water.

The chopping sound grew, echoing off the water. It was hard to get a Fix on where it was coming from, but there was no doubt what it was.

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It was getting louder. They turned in the water, looking skyward. The noise increased markedly, and then, without warning, two helicopters screamed over treetops above where Tim O’Rourke was waiting. For a brief second, both former SEALS thought they had been discovered, but the choppers didn’t stop. They kept going, racing overhead, out into the Bay and then turning south. Stroble and Hackett looked at each other quickly and then sprinted for shore. Back in the Operations Center the tension was mounting.

Stansfield watched the chase unfold on the big board. The display from the AWAC was up on the screen.

Arthur’s homing signal hadn’t changed course. It was still headed south. The position of the two Cobra 306 gunships was marked by a duo of green triangles on the screen. The radio communication between the pilots of the choppers and the airborne controller on board the AWAC was being played over the loudspeaker. The choppers were closing quickly. Dobbs turned to Stansfield and said, “I have to tell the pilots what their rules of engagement are.” Without pause Stansfield replied, “If they are met with the slightest resistance, they are free to use whatever force they deem necessary. I want that boat stopped.”

The small charges exploded, ripping three holes in the bow of the boat and two more next to the engines. The holes in the bow acted as scoops, funneling water into the cabin.

In the stern, water rose rapidly, the engines straining with the extra weight and the loss of a smooth hull. The engines revved louder and louder until they were smothered by the water. All forward movement stopped and the expensive boat slipped beneath the surface of the dark water. The controller on board the AWAC announced the decrease in speed before it was noticeable on the big board in the Operations Center. He continued to read off the decreasing speed until the boat had stopped.

Stansfield, along with everyone else in the room, watched the helicopters rapidly close the gap. The green triangles inched closer and closer to the stationary red dot. The

AWAC’s controller vectored the choppers right in on top of the mark, and then came the surprise.

The pilots announced no boat was in sight. The black BMW weaved through the busy

Friday-night traffic of Georgetown. As Coleman drove, he told Michael that his former boss, Admiral Devoe, had called to tell him the FBI was snooping around asking questions. A pensive O’Rourke asked, “Did he say why they are interested in you?”

“Only that they wanted to know why I was discharged early.” O’Rourke stared out the window and said, “That means they know about Snatch Back.

Did the admiral tell you who called him?”

“No. All he said was that they were from the Bureau.

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Michael, I wouldn’t get too worried yet. They might just be going down a list of former SEALS.”

“I doubt it. The FBI is looking for someone who had motive enough to do this, and when they find out Fitzgerald was the one who leaked Snatch Back, they’re going to be all over you.” O’Rourke nervously tapped his fingers on the dashboard. “And then they’re going to find out about Mark’s death, and they’re going to get real interested in you.”

“Let them look. They’re not going to find anything. They can’t prove I knew squat about who leaked Snatch Back. I found out from you, and you weren’t supposed to know.” Michael thought about it. “If all they have is Fitzgerald’s connection to Snatch

Back and your brother’s death, that won’t be enough to indict, but it will be enough for them to assign a couple dozen agents to watch you around the clock. You are going to have to lay really low for a while. Dump the car as soon as we’re done tonight, and don’t go back to the garage.” Coleman agreed, and several minutes later he turned onto

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 pointed 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 Garret 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.

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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Stansfield 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 assume 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.”

Stansfield frowned. “You know as well as I do, Stu Garret doesn’t show concern for anyone unless he stands to lose something. Later, when I told them that Arthur’s body had been discovered on Garret’s lawn, he almost had a nervous breakdown.”

“Did he admit to any involvement with Higgins?”

“No, he still denied it.”

“What did Nance say?”

“He wasn’t at the meeting. He was tied up somewhere else. I left the White House a little more than suspicious. Garret was hiding something, and my suspicion was soon backed up by two disturbing facts.

Arthur’s autopsy revealed sodium pentothal in his blood. He was interrogated, but whoever did it must have only wanted a specific piece of information; there wouldn’t have been time for more. We also have a surveillance video from Arthur’s security room

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with Garret and Nance on it. They visited him last Saturday, and Nance also came alone on Thursday—which means Garret lied to me about not knowing Arthur.”

“So what role would you like me to play?”

“I need you to threaten a full-scale investigation. We’ll give them two options. They can either sit down with my people and tell them everything they know under the protection of the national secrecy act, or they can give a deposition to you and your agents and risk prosecution.” Roach thought about it for a minute. “As you said earlier, this case is under the jurisdiction of the FBI. What if at some point I decide to pursue the investigation regardless of any deal you may have struck with Nance and Garret?”

“That’s entirely up to you.” Stu Garret paced frantically behind his desk with a cigarette in hand. Mike Nance sat stiff and upright on the couch. He’d been watching

Garret for the last ten minutes, waiting for the Valium to kick in, straining to control the urge to bash Garret over the head with a lamp. He had to stay calm … above everything he had to stay calm. Garret stopped and pointed his cigarette at Nance. “I can’t believe I

let you talk me into this. I must have been out of my fucking mind when I agreed to get into bed with Arthur.”

Nance bit down on his lip and said, “Stu, do you think your emotional tirades are doing us any good?”

“Hey, don’t give me that cool-as-ice attitude. You deal with it your way, and I’ll deal with it my way …. Fuck!” Garret took a vacuum-like pull off his cigarette and his face turned bright red.

Nance stood abruptly and raised his voice.

“All right, I’ll do things your way! Sit down and shut up! We have a meeting with

Stansfield in ten minutes, and we are going to have to come up with some answers as to why Arthur’s body ended up on your lawn …

and if you don’t get control of your emotions, Stansfield will tear you to shreds!”

Nance stared hard at Garret. Garret exhaled and his shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry, Mike, I just can’t believe all of this is happening so fast. What in the hell are we going to do?

Stansfield is going to want to know why Arthur was found at my house. He knows I was lying to him last night when I told him I’d never met Arthur. What in the fuck am I going to tell him? What am I going to tell the press?

What am I going to tell the cops? They’re gonna want to talk to me, too.”

Nance put a hand on his shoulder. “Stu, one problem at a time. Don’t worry about the cops and don’t worry about the press. For the next hour, I need you to stay calm and keep your mouth shut. Stansfield is our main problem. Now just sit down and relax while I tell

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you what we’re going to do.” Garret sank into the couch and stuck a cigarette in his mouth.

Nance paced slowly across the room. “I have a good idea for damage control.” With his hands on his hips, he turned and said, “We tell Stansfield the truth.” Garret blurted out a loud cackle. “Have you lost your fucking mind! … Yeah… sure … let’s tell him the truth…”

Nance stuck his finger in Garret’s face. “Stu, this is the last time I’m going to tell you to stay quiet and get control of yourself. Don’t forget, Arthur put a price tag on your head before he was killed, and I’m the only one who can rescind the order.” Nance stared as hard and as deep as he could into Garret’s eyes, making sure there was no doubt that he was serious. Garret tried to speak, but Nance cut him off.

“Shut up, Stu. Just shut up for the next five minutes!” Garret bit down on his tongue and nodded. “We are going to tell Stansfield about our recruitment of Arthur to help get the President’s budget passed.

We’ll tell him that Arthur helped blackmail Congressman Moore. It is simple, it is the truth, and Stansfield will buy it because we can prove it. We admit to some wrongdoing and Stansfield goes away satisfied.”

“What about the press? I can’t tell them that.”

“Stu, I’m not going to say it again! We are talking about Stansfield right now! We’ll talk about the press later.”

“Should we tell Jim?”

“No! That way he’ll have complete deniability. We can tell him after the meeting that we wanted to protect him. Just let me do the talking, and whatever you do, don’t lose your cool.” Nance finished filling Garret in on the plan, and when he was done, they went down to the Situation Room.

Nance stopped when he entered the room and looked for Stansfield. He wasn’t there yet, but the Joint Chiefs, the secretary of state, and the secretary of defense were.

Nance quickly realized they could not be present when he gave Stansfield their excuse. Nance walked to the far end of the room where the President was sitting and whispered into his ear. “Sir, for reasons I can’t discuss right now, I need you to excuse the

Joint Chiefs, the secretary of defense, and the secretary of state from the meeting.”

“Won’t that look rather unusual?”

“Please, trust me, sir. We need to talk to Director Stansfield alone.

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и . . It’s for the best. I’ll explain later.” Stevens hesitated for a second and then looked at Garret and made the connection. Clearing his throat, he said, “Gentlemen, there has been a slight change of plans.

I am going to need to talk to Director Stansfield alone. If the rest of you could wait for us in the Cabinet Room, we’ll join you just as soon as possible.” The generals and admirals all stood and gave Garret a look as they headed for the door.

They all knew who Arthur Higgins was and wanted to know why he had been found dead on the chief of staff’s lawn. They continued out the door, and Nance closed it behind them. Stevens asked, “Are you two going to tell me what in the hell is going on?”

“Mr. President, sir… I think it would be best if we waited for Director Stansfield to get here,” replied Nance in his cool and detached voice. “Why?”

“You are going to want complete deniability on this one, sir.” Stevens frowned.

“What in the hell have you two been up to?” The President looked to Garret for the answer, but Nance gave it. “Sir, this will not affect your presidency.

You are just going to have to trust me that it will be best if you look surprised when we tell Director Stansfield what our connection with Arthur was.” MICHAEL sat

ABOVE THE REST OF THE MORNING TRAFFIC AS HE ROLLED through downtown D.C. in his forest green Chevy Tahoe. He was tired and nervous. His nerves were shot from a lack of sleep and too much coffee, not to mention the little excursion involving Arthur.

When he was about four blocks away from the Hoover Building, he dialed the phone number for the main switchboard. After several rings a woman with a pleasant voice answered. “Federal Bureau of Investigation. How may I help you?”

“Special Agent McMahon, please.”

“Just one moment.” The phone started to ring again and then another person answered. “Special Agent McMahon’s office.”

“Special Agent McMahon, please.”

“Special Agent McMahon is away from his desk right now. May I ask who is calling?”

“Is he in the building this morning?”

“I’m sorry, but I’m not allowed to answer that. May I ask who is calling?” Michael hit the brakes to avoid ramming a cab that pulled out in front of him. “This is Congressman

O’Rourke, and I need to speak with him. it’s extremely urgent!”

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“Special Agent McMahon is very busy right now-. It would help if I could tell him what it was that you wanted.”

“I don’t want anything. I need to give him something that I think he will be very interested in.”

“What is it regarding?” Michael let out an audible sigh. “Listen, I know you’re only trying to do your job, but this is something that I can’t talk about over the phone.”

“You said your name was Congressman O’Rourke?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll see if I can track him down, but it would help if I could give him even the slightest hint as to what you wanted. He has been getting a lot of phone calls from

Congressman and Senators lately.”

“I don’t want anything from him. I want to give him something.

Something that will have an enormous impact on his investigation.”

“Just one minute, Congressman. I’ll see if I can track him down.”

With his digital phone clutched to his ear, O’Rourke circled the Hoover Building.

Several minutes later, McMahon answered the phone.

“Congressman O’Rourke, sorry to keep you waiting. How are you doing?”

“I’ve been better.”

“Sorry to hear that. What can I do for you?”

“I have something that I need to give you.”

“What is it?”

“I don’t want to talk about it over the phone.”

“All right, let me get my DayTimer and see when I have an opening.”

“This can’t wait.”

“Congressman, do you have any idea how busy I am right now?”

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“Yes, I do. Believe me, it won’t be a waste of your time.” McMahon paused. “When do you want to meet?”

“I’m down on the street, in my truck.”

“Ah … I’m in the middle of something right now, can you give me an hour?”

Michael tried to sound as relaxed as he could. “Special Agent McMahon, do you want to know who killed Senator Olson and Congressman Turnquist?” There was a moment of silence on the line and then McMahon responded, “All right, I’ll be down in five minutes.

Pick me up at the south entrance.” O’Rourke completed one more circle and pulled up to the curb. McMahon came out of the building a moment later and approached the truck with someone Michael didn’t recognize. Michael rolled down the passenger window and

McMahon leaned in, sticking his hand out. Michael grabbed it and said, “Who is she?”

“This is Irene Kennedy. She works for the CIA and has been helping out with the investigation.”

“Get in,” replied O’Rourke. McMahon climbed in the front seat and Kennedy got in back. Michael put the car into drive and pulled back out into traffic. Looking in the rearview mirror, Michael asked, “What do you do for the CIA, Dr. Kennedy?”

“I’m an analyst.”

“What do you analyze?”

“Terrorism is my specialty.”

“Are you familiar with a guy by the name of Arthur Higgins?” Kennedy moved forward. “Very What do you know about him?” Michael reached down and grabbed a letter-sized manila envelope from the center console and handed it to McMahon. “I found this on my doorstep this morning along with a tape, and you’re not going to believe what’s on it.”

Michael put the tape into the cassette player.

Stansfield and Roach entered the Situation Room and sat across the table from Nance and Garret. Both directors said hello to the President, but ignored his national security adviser and chief of staff. Nance hadn’t planned on Roach coming. He forced a slight smile onto his face and said, “Director Roach, we weren’t informed that you would be joining us this morning.”

“I asked him to come,” replied Stansfield. “Arthur was transported across state lines and killed. The investigation falls under the jurisdiction of the FBI.”

“what investigation?” asked Nance. “The investigation into his death.”

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“Surely you aren’t serious. We can’t have what Arthur did for the CIA brought under public scrutiny.”

“That will be up to Director Roach and the Justice Department.”

Stansfield looked at the President. “Sir, may I be blunt?”

“I would prefer it,” responded an aggravated Stevens. “Arthur Higgins was privy to a rather large amount of highly classified information.

My foremost concern is to identify the correlation between his being taken from his estate and being left at Mr. Garret’s house. I have to know what Arthur’s relationship was with Mr. Garret so I can assess any possible damage to the Agency. We can go about this one of two ways: Mr. Garret can either tell me and my people everything he knows under the protection of the national secrecy act, or he can tell his story under deposition to the

FBI.” The President looked at Garret and said, “Stu?”

Garret turned to Nance for direction. Nance cleared his throat and said, “Director

Roach, would you excuse us for a minute?” Roach didn’t say a word. He looked to

Stansfield, who nodded, telling him it was all right.

Roach got out of his chair and left the room. As soon as he was gone, Stansfield zeroed in on Garret. “What was your relationship to Arthur?”

Again, Garret glanced at Nance for support. Nance looked back across the table and said, “Arthur was helping us with a little project that had nothing to do with the CIA or the intelligence community.”

“What was the project?”

“I would rather not say.” Nance didn’t want to give in too quickly.

“That’s not how this is going to work, Mike. You either tell me, or the FBI starts digging, and neither of us want that.”

“It was purely a domestic issue … political in nature.”

“All the more reason that the FBI should be involved,” responded Stansfield.

“Thomas, I’m telling the truth. What we were doing with Arthur had nothing to do with the Agency.

He was simply doing some freelance work for us that was political and nothing else.”

Stansfield looked at his watch and then Garret. “Do you want me to bring Director Roach back in?” The speechless Garret had beads of sweat forming on his forehead and upper lip. He was so flustered all he could do was shake his head from side to side. “What in the hell is going on here?” asked the President. “A former employee of the CIA shows up

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dead on your lawn, Stu, and you look like you’re about to have a nervous breakdown. I

want some answers!”

“Sir, as I said earlier,” responded Nance, “for your own protection, I think it would be best if you remained in the dark on this.”

“For my own protection, I want to know what in the hell is going on!”

Stevens’s complexion reddened. Nance took a deep breath and paused, as if gathering his thoughts. “We recruited Arthur to help aid in the passage of your budget through the

House.”

“How?” asked the President. “He did some … background checks on several

Congressman.” Stansfield shook his head sideways knowing full well what background checks really meant. The President asked, “What do you mean by ‘background checks’?”

“Arthur gathered some information for us that we used to convince some of the more reluctant Congressman to vote for your budget.”

“You did what?” asked an exasperated Stevens. “Stu, was this your idea?”

“No … well, kind of…” Stansfield watched the President grow irate and decided that he had likely been kept in the dark. Kennedy was too engrossed in Arthur’s taped confession to do anything but listen.

When it was over, it dawned on her that she needed to get ahold of Stansfield immediately.

Grabbing the digital phone from her pocket, she dialed the direct line to her boss’s office. After six rings it rolled over to his secretary.

“Director Stansfield’s office. How may I help you?”

“Pat, this is Irene.

Where is Thomas?”

“He’s at the White House.”

“Get ahold of him immediately!” said Kennedy tersely. “It’s very important.”

McMahon was in the front seat doing the same thing, but trying to get ahold of Roach.

Michael continued to drive and prepare himself for the inevitable landslide of questions.

Back in the Situation Room, Stansfield waited for the President to stop yelling and then asked, “Who did he blackmail?”

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“I think we have cooperated more than enough,” responded Nance. “You don’t need names.”

“Yes, I do. Because I am going to have to talk to them.”

“Thomas, I would prefer to let this thing die,” said Nance. “I’m sure you would, but

I’m not going to let it. Whoever killed Arthur also interrogated him. The pathologists told me he was loaded with sodium pentothal. If you two think you’re out of the woods by telling me you blackmailed several Congressman, you’re wrong. Whoever took Arthur got some information out of him, and it obviously had something to do with Mr. Garret.”

A look of sheer panic flashed across Garret’s face and he shouted, “They interrogated him?” Nance stayed calm and smiled.

“You’re bluffing, Thomas.”

“I’ll show you the toxicology reports if you’d like.”

“Don’t insult me.” Nance smiled with a wide grin and said, “You could doctor them to say anything you wanted.”

“Come now, Mike, who is insulting who? Look at your friend Mr. Garret.

He’s wound up so tight he’s about to snap. You’re not telling me everything there is to know about your dealings with Arthur, and that’s fine.” Stansfield held his hands up. “I’m sure Director Roach and his people will have more success in finding out what really happened.”

“Enough!” snapped the President. “Stu and Mike, I want to hear the whole story right now. No more games!” There was a knock on the door and a Secret Service agent entered. “Director Stansfield, your office is on the line. They say it’s an emergency. You can take the call right here.”

The agent pointed to a phone on a table by the door. Stansfield walked over to the phone and grabbed it. “Hello.” Kennedy sat in the back of O’Rourke’s truck and spoke rapidly into her phone. “Thomas, this is Irene. Where are you?”

“I’m in the Situation Room.”

“I have something that you are going to want to hear immediately.”

“What?”

“I can’t say, just trust me. Leave there immediately, and get back to Langley as quick as you can!”

Stansfield looked over his shoulder at the President, who was yelling at Nance and

Garret. “Irene, I’m in the middle of something really important.”

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“Thomas, I have a taped confession from Arthur, and you’re not going to believe what’s on it.” Stansfield hesitated for a second and replied, “I’ll get there as quickly as I

can.” After hanging up, Stansfield walked back to the table and looked at the President.

“I’m sorry, sir, but something very important has come up. I’m going to have to head back to Langley.” Stevens shook his head. “What could be more important than this?”

“I don’t know, but I’ll call you as soon as I find out. We’ll have to continue this later.”

Adjacent to Director Stansfield’s office was a soundproof conference room. Kennedy, McMahon, and Michael sat at the conference table and waited for Director Roach and

Director Stansfield to arrive. Michael kept wondering when the questions would start. He knew that eventually McMahon would ask why the assassins chose him to be their courier. Michael would play dumb and profess his hatred and open contempt for

Washington politics. The tape was his trump card.

As long as the FBI and the CIA thought that hundreds of copies could be mailed to the media at any moment, they would watch where they dug.

Even if they did find something, where could they go with the information? The door flew open and Stansfield and Roach entered, agitated and out of breath. Stansfield yanked off his overcoat and said to Kennedy, “Irene, this had better be for real. You just pulled me out of a huge meeting.”

“Don’t worry, it won’t be a waste of your time.” Kennedy pointed at Michael.

“Thomas, this is Congressman Michael O’Rourke. He came to us with some information that you’re not going to believe.” Kennedy looked back at O’Rourke and said, “Congressman, this is Director Stansfield and Director Roach.” Michael rose and shook both of their hands. McMahon pointed at Michael. “When the Congressman awoke this morning, he found a package on his front step. It was from the assassins. Inside was a taped confession of Arthur Higgins.” McMahon held up the tape and shook it.

“It contains some disturbing information. Along with the tape is a list of conditions the assassins want met.” Stansfield gestured for Roach to take a seat and said, “Let’s hear it.” McMahon inserted the tape and pressed play. Some static began hissing from the small tape player, and then Michael’s computer-altered voice asked, “What is your name?”

“What?” asked Arthur’s drugged voice. “What is your name?”

“Arthur… Arthur Higgins.” Stansfield’s eyes closed. “When were you born?”

“February thirteenth, 1919.”

“Who were your parents?”

“Arthur and Mary Higgins.”

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“Who do you work for?”

“I don’t work for anyone. Why don’t you take those masks off and we’ll talk …. I’m a very wealthy man.”

“Who did you used to work for, Mr. Higgins?”

“The CIA.”

“What did you do for the CIA?”

“A lot of things …. Why don’t we talk about releasing me before you find out something that you don’t want to know.”

“When you were at the CIA, which directorate did you work in?”

“Operations.”

“Specifically, what part of the Operations Directorate?”

“Black Ops … I did a lot of stuff.”

“What did you do for the Black Ops?”

“I ran it.”

“Why did you leave the CIA?”

“I quit.”

“Did you quit or were you forced out?”

“I was forced out.”

“why were you forced out?”

“They were afraid of me.”

“Who was afraid of you?”

“Everyone.”

“Specifically, who was afraid of you?”

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“Stansfield and Olson.” Stansfield didn’t bother looking up. He kept his eyes closed and listened. “Mr. Higgins, were you the author of a covert operation back in the early sixties that resulted in the assassinations of several French politicians?” Stansfield felt a sharp pain shoot through his forehead. “Yes,” responded Arthur’s thick voice. “Who were you working for at the time?”

“The CIA.” Irene Kennedy looked to her boss. She had never heard of the covert operation, but it was long before her time. “How many French politicians did you kill?”

“Two.”

“Who were they?”

“Claude Lapoint and Jean Bastreuo.” Stansfield gripped his forehead and squeezed hard, wondering how the interrogators had managed to find out about one of the most classified operations in the history of the Agency. The generic computer voice continued, “Why were they killed?”

“Because they were ungrateful bastards.”

“Could you be more specific?”

“They were the leaders of a movement within the French parliament that wanted all

U.S. nuclear weapons removed from French soil.”

“Did anyone in the French government know that the CIA had killed two of their elected officials?”

“No.”

“How did you kill them without getting caught?”

“We made it look like French revolutionaries did it.”

“While you were with the CIA, did you conduct other operations similar to this?”

“Yes.”

“Since you left the CIA, have you conducted any operations similar to the one that you ran in France?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever conducted an operation like this in the United States?”

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Stansfield’s eyes opened with the realization of where the confession was headed.

“Yes.”

“Did you use the recent string of assassinations as a cover to kill Senator Olson and

Congressman Turnquist?”

“Yes.” Roach shook his head and said, “Oh my God.”

“Why did you kill Senator Olson and Congressman Turnquist?”

“I had Olson killed for my own personal reasons and Turnquist … we killed him to confuse the FBI and the CIA.”

“Why did you kill Senator Olson?”

“I hated him. He was a weak man who had no business interfering in the operations of the Agency.”

“Why did you hate him?”

“He blocked my nomination for director of the CIA. I should have been the next director, but instead Stansfield, that weak imbecile, got it, and it was all Olson’s doing.”

“Who else was involved in your plot to kill Senator Olson and

Congressman Turnquist?”

“Mike Nance and Stu Garret.” Roach shook his head and said, “Unbelievable.”

“Why did they want Olson killed?”

“Olson was going to announce that the new coalition was a sham. That their proposed budget cuts were fake.”

“Garret and Nance wanted to have him killed for that?” “It was my idea, and Nance brought Garret in on it because we knew how desperate he was to get control of the situation. Besides, we knew if we killed some Federal agents, it would undermine the public support for the terrorists.”

“What were you getting out of the deal?”

“Garret said he would get the President to force Stansfield out and replace him with me.

With Olson gone no one would block my nomination.”

“Did the President know about your plans?”

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“I don’t know.” After several tense moments of static, the tape ended.

Roach and Stansfield shared a long, shocked look. Michael watched them from the other end of the table. O’Rourke knew that Stansfield was taking the new information the hardest. It was his agency that would suffer the most if the tape became public. Roach leaned over and whispered in Stansfield’s ear, “Is there any truth to the story about the

CIA assassinating two members of the French parliament?” Not wanting to give a verbal response, Stansfield nodded his head yes.

Roach took a deep breath and said, “We’ve got some major problems.”

“There’s more.” McMahon held up a white piece of paper covered in plastic. “This is addressed to the two of you.” McMahon looked at Roach and Stansfield and started to read aloud: “‘After hearing the tape, it should be painfully obvious to you why we left Mr.

Higgins’s body at Stu Garret’s house. If we were the crazed terrorists that the President and his people have portrayed us to be, we would release this tape to every media organization in the world. The damage to America would be devastating. We would become the pariahs of the international community, the office of the presidency would be ruined, the American people’s faith in the system would be destroyed, and the CIA would be shut down within twenty-four hours. “‘We do not want to see America torn apart over the selfish and evil actions of a select few, but the actions of Mike Nance and Stu Garret cannot go unpunished. In exchange for not releasing Mr. Higgins’s confession, we demand the following: Mike Nance will announce his resignation by noon tomorrow and retreat permanently from public life. Thirty days from now, Stu Garret will also announce his resignation and cease any involvement in the American political process, at any level.

Within six months, both Nance and Garret will be expected to convert half of their net worth and donate it anonymously to the families of the eight Federal law enforcement officers they killed. None of this is negotiable. If at any point Nance and Garret attempt to renege on this arrangement, we will hunt them down and kill them. “‘We are unsure as to what involvement President Stevens had in this plot and, for now, are willing to allow him to stay in office if he meets the following conditions: He will act as a bridge between the two parties and cease all partisan politics.