Term Limits

He will put together a balanced budget for the next fiscal year, and he will meet all of our previous demands regarding a national crime bill and a national sales tax to retire the national debt. If these demands are met, we will allow Stevens to run for reelection. If the

President wavers at any point, we will release the tape to the media. “‘The second part of our demands involves the FBI. Director Roach, we do not expect you to condone what we have done, but you must at least recognize the differences between what we did and what Mr. Higgins,Mr. Nance, and Mr. Garret did. We murdered four corrupt politicians in an attempt to restore some integrity and common sense to a political system that has none. Mr. Higgins, Mr. Nance, and Mr. Garret murdered two of the only honest politicians in Washington and eight Federal law enforcement officers, all for their own perverted self-interests. “‘If you agree not to prosecute Mr. Nance and Mr. Garret, you must also agree to never bring forth any indictments regarding the assassinations of

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Senator Fitzgerald, Congressman Koslowski, Senator Downs, and Speaker Basset. We understand the compromising situation this puts you in, but considering the piece of information in our possession, we think it a reasonable trade-off.

“‘For your own safety and the integrity of the FBI, we would also suggest that the

President, Mr. Nance, and Mr. Garret be kept in the dark about your knowledge of our deal. It would be best for all if Director Stansfield handled the negotiations with the

White House. We will await the announcement of Mike Nance’s resignation. If it is not made public by noon tomorrow, we will be left with no other option than to release the tape.”” McMahon set the letter down. Director Stansfield closed his eyes and gently shook his head. Everyone waited for him to speak. He rose and said, “Please excuse

Director Roach and me for a moment.” Stansfield walked to the side door that led to his office and Roach followed. Stansfield closed the heavy, soundproof door and walked over to the large picture window. “Well, that’s one hell of a confession.” Roach looked at

Stansfield’s back and asked, “Do you believe it?” Stansfield nodded. “Unfortunately, yes.” His answer was followed by more silence. Roach placed a hand under his chin. “I’m not sure it would be admissible in a court of law.”

Stansfield shook his head and waved his hand as if batting the idea out of the air.

“Let’s not even entertain that line of logic. If they release that tape, we are in serious trouble, and I mean the entire country. Arthur’s body has been identified by the media, and they have footage of him lying propped up against Garret’s fence. Those two French politicians were in fact killed back in the early sixties, and the CIA was behind it.”

Stansfield pointed toward the conference room.

“Brian, everything those assassins said is true. That tape will tear America apart.”

“What do we do then?”

“We have to take the deal, and we have to work fast.” Roach sighed.

“Can we trust these assassins?” Stansfield turned around with hatred on his face.

“Apparently we can trust them a hell of lot more than the national security adviser and the President’s chief of staff.”

“What in the hell were they thinking?”

“I have no idea.”

“Do you think the President knew what they were up to?”

“My gut tells me no, but I haven’t had enough time to thoroughly analyze the situation.” Stansfield looked at his watch. “Brian, we have to move on this. A lot has to happen between now and noon tomorrow. My decision is a foregone conclusion. We have to do everything in our power to make sure that tape never goes public.”

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Roach paused. “I don’t want that tape to go public either, but I sure as hell don’t like the idea of Nance and Garret just walking away.”

“Brian, I have a feeling that within the next year these assassins will take care of Mr.

Garret and Mr. Nance, and … if they don’t ..

. I will have them taken care of. That is between you and me, friend to friend, not director to director.” Roach looked into Stansfield’s eyes and reminded himself that his friend played by a different set of rules.

“We really don’t have much of a choice, do we?”

“No … so you agree to meet their demands?”

“Yes, but I’m not sure I can guarantee that no indictments will be brought forth. What if Skip finds out who these assassins are?”

“I’ll gladly deal with that problem if it ever happens, but something tells me we’ll never know who was behind this. They were right about another thing. You have to be left out of the loop. If this blows up in our face, the FBI must have complete deniability.

The American people are going to have to turn to something for hope, and if the FBI is implicated in the cover-up, it will really look bad.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Roach considered his options for a minute and then said, “Let’s go talk to the others.” Michael, sitting next to McMahon, was trying to stay in character. Acting mad was not hard, but acting naive was. He kept reminding himself what he should and shouldn’t know. Fortunately, everyone was so shocked by Higgins’s confession that they’d been too preoccupied to ask him questions.

Roach took a seat and Stansfield remained standing. The director of the CIA crossed his arms and said, “It goes without saying that this is a very difficult situation. For reasons that we are all aware of, Brian and I have decided to try and meet the demands of the assassins.

If you have any opinions, now is the time to voice them.” Stansfield looked to Irene

Kennedy first. Kennedy glanced up at her boss and shook her head no.

Kennedy knew full well that they were boxed in. The only reasonable action was to take the deal. McMahon was next. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “I understand that our options are limited, but I think Garret and Nance are getting off way too easy. I

think they should be strung up by their balls and left for the vultures.”

“I can relate to your desire for retribution,” said Stansfield. “As I was just telling

Brian, I would be surprised if these assassins let either of them live for more than a year.”

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“What about my investigation?” asked McMahon. “If you catch them, we will cross that bridge when we get to it. Do you have it in you to let them go if it comes to that?”

asked Stansfield. McMahon glanced over at Roach while he thought about the question.

From the very beginning he’d had a gnawing respect for the unknown group. “If they turn out to be the type of people I think they are, and they really do have patriotic motives…”

McMahon paused. “I’ll look the other way.”

“Congressman?” asked Stansfield. Michael leaned back and said, “I’m not crazy about the cover-up, but given the situation, I don’t see any other alternative.” Stansfield nodded.

“We are all in agreement then.

Before we proceed, I need to know if anyone else knows about this tape.

Congressman?” Stansfield looked to Michael for an answer. With a calm face

Michael replied, “I haven’t told anyone.”

“Skip?”

“No. As soon as Congressman O’Rourke played the tape for us, we came straight here.”

“Irene?”

“Good.” Stansfield looked at his watch. “I am going to go to the White House alone to handle the negotiations.” Michael cleared his throat and got Stansfield’s attention. “Sir, I

would like to come along.”

Stansfield studied O’Rourke briefly and replied, “I think it would be best if I handled it alone.”

“I’m sure you do, but Senator Olson was a very good friend of mine. I want to see the look on their faces when they realize they’re not going to get away with this.” IT WAS

MIKE NANCE’S TURN TO BE NERVOUS, BUT YOU WOULDN’T KNOW IT by looking at him. He sat with his perfect posture and minimal movement.

Underneath, however, he wasn’t so composed. Stu Garret was pacing back and forth in front of Nance’s desk with an optimistic smile on his face, even though they had just spent the last half an hour getting yelled at by the President. Stevens was irate that he had been left out of the loop and that Garret and Nance had been involved in a scheme that could get Stevens impeached or worse. Nance was worried about other things. He tried to ignore Garret as he blabbered on. “I think we’re going to be okay. I really think everything is going to work out. Stansfield bought the whole blackmail story …. Jim will calm down in a couple of weeks and realize that we were only trying to protect him, and I

know Arthur was a friend of yours, but, Jesus, he gave me the creeps. I have to admit I

feel a lot better knowing that he took what he knows to the grave.” Without turning his head Nance looked up at Garret out of the corner of his eye and said, “Shut up, Stu.”

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“Hey, I’m only trying to lay everything out so we know where we’re at.”

“I know where I am, and I don’t need you to point out the obvious. So kindly keep your mouth shut for several minutes. I’m trying to think.”

Garret sat down on the couch and mumbled to himself. Nance turned his chair around so he wouldn’t have to look at him. Why had Stansfield left the meeting so abruptly, just when things were heating up? They weren’t out of the woods yet. He thought of mentioning that fact to Garret, but knew he preferred Garret’s current obnoxious state to his frantic, panicked one. Michael sat in the back of the armor-plated Cadillac with

Stansfield. He was somewhat relieved that Director Stansfield was not a big talker.

O’Rourke guessed correctly that Stansfield was preparing for his confrontation with

Nance and Garret. Stansfield had almost called the White House to schedule the meeting, but at the last minute he decided it would be better if they surprised Garret and Nance.

When they were less than a mile from the White House, Stansfield picked up the secure phone and dialed the number for Jack Lortch’s office. Lortch answered and Stansfield said, “Jack, this is Director Stansfield. I need an emergency meeting with the President, Mike Nance, and Stu Garret. I’m about to enter the underground parking garage of the

Treasury Building.

Please alert your agents that I will be coming through the tunnel.”

Stansfield glanced over at Michael. “I have a guest-Congressman O’Rourke. I’ll vouch for him …. Jack, this is very serious. Please get them down to the Situation Room immediately.” Lortch got the point and Stansfield hung up. The limousine pulled into the underground garage of the Treasury Building, and Michael and Stansfield were escorted by four Secret Service agents down a narrow cement tunnel.

When they reached the other end, they stopped at a thick steel door that the Secret

Service referred to as the Marilyn Monroe door. They held their identification up to a camera, and Stansfield asked, “Are you nervous?”

“No, I’m too mad to be nervous.”

“Congressman, would you do me a favor?” Michael nodded yes, and Stansfield said, “When I play the tape, please keep an eye on the President. I’m going to be busy watching

Mr. Nance and Mr. Garret.

I would like your opinion as to whether or not the President is genuinely surprised by the tape.” Michael nodded and asked, “Is it safe to play the tape at the White House… I

mean, won’t the Secret Service be monitoring the meeting?”

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“No, the Situation Room is secure. It’s swept daily for bugs and is completely soundproof. The Secret Service is not allowed to monitor the room because of the classified information that is discussed.” The six-inch-thick steel door swung open, revealing Jack Lortch. Stansfield introduced Michael to Lortch while they continued down the hall. They entered a large room, and Lortch escorted them past the National

Security Desk to a door in the far corner. Stansfield and Michael entered the room, and

Lortch closed it behind them. President Stevens was standing at the far end of the table.

His suit coat was off and draped over the back of the high-backed leather chair in front of him.

Nance and Garret were seated. It was obvious that the President was unhappy with his two confidants. Stansfield and Michael walked around the left side of the long table and stopped behind the last two chairs.

“Mr. President,” said Stansfield, “this is Congressman O’Rourke.” Out of habit

Stevens extended his hand, and then a strange look appeared on his face as he remembered his phone conversation with the young Congressman some two weeks earlier. Michael shook the President’s hand and the three of them sat. “I assume whatever this is about has something to do with why you were called away so abruptly this morning?” asked the President.

“Yes… something very serious has been brought to my attention.” “What is the

Congressman doing here?” asked Garret in his usual impatient tone. “He is here at my request.” Michael moved his eyes from Garret to Nance and stared at him with pure hatred. Stansfield’s answer wasn’t good enough for Garret so he redirected his question to

Michael.

“Congressman O’Rourke, why are you here?” Michael looked back at him and replied, “You’ll find out soon enough.”

“Mr. President.” Stansfield pulled the tape from his pocket and held it for everyone to see.

“Someone left this tape on Congressman O’Rourke’s doorstep this morning.”

Stansfield looked at Garret and said, “Before I play it, Mr. Garret, would you like to tell us the real reason Arthur Higgins was dumped at your house last night?” Garret shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. “I have no idea.” Mike Nance leaned back in his chair and stared at Stansfield like a cat. “What is on the tape?” asked Stevens.

Stansfield walked to the other end of the table and inserted the tape in the cassette player. “It is a recording of a confession by Arthur Higgins before he was killed.”

Stansfield hit play and walked back to his seat. Just as he sat down, Michael’s electronically altered voice came over the speakers. “What is your name?”

“What?”

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“What is your name?”

“Arthur… Arthur Higgins.” Garret shot forward in his chair, covering his face with both hands. Reaching forward, Nance grabbed him by the arm and pulled him back, whispering in his ear, “Stay calm.” As Nance tried to keep Garret from losing it, the tape continued, with the generic computer voice asking Arthur about his past and what he had done for the CIA. Director Stansfield had given up on watching Garret and was locked in a stare with Nance as the tape played on. “Mr. Higgins, were you the author of a covert operation back in the early sixties that resulted in the assassinations of several French politicians?”

“Yes.”

“Who were you working for at the time?”

“The CIA.”

“How many French politicians did you kill?”

“Two.”

“Who were they?”

“Claude Lapoint and Jean Bastreuo.” Barely able to contain himself, the President shouted, “What?” He looked to Nance for a full thirty seconds as the tape continued to describe the interrogation between Arthur and his captors.

And then the more pertinent question was asked of the deceased Higgins.

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

Congressman Turnquist?”

“Yes.” Garret yelled, “It wasn’t my idea! I swear it wasn’t my idea!”

Nance ripped at his arm and pulled his face close. “Shut your mouth!”

The President stared at his close advisers, frozen in disbelief, and then the other shoe dropped.

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

Turnquist?”

“Mike Nance and Stu Garret.” Garret tried to say something, but Nance pulled him back into his chair before he could.

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Stevens closed his eyes and lowered his head while Nance stared unflinchingly back at Stansfield. “Did the President know about your plans?” asked the cold, sterile voice.

The President looked to Stansfield. “I had nothing to do with this!” Stansfield ignored him and continued to stare at Nance. Arthur’s final words rang out: “I don’t know.” The tape ended, and the room was filled with an awkward silence.

A slight smile creased Nance’s lips and he said, “Nice try, Thomas.”

With a placid expression Stansfield asked, “What do you mean ‘nice try’?”

“All of that is a lie, so I have to assume you either tortured Arthur into making those bizarre accusations or you electronically altered the tape.” Stansfield stared at Nance unflinchingly.

“Congressman O’Rourke received this tape earlier today along with a letter from the assassins that were responsible for killing Senator Fitzgerald, Senator Downs, Congressman Koslowski, and Speaker Basset.

They are the ones that took Arthur, not me.”

“What in the hell is going on here?” asked the President. “I’m not sure, sir,” replied

Nance. “But I think Director Stansfield is trying to blackmail us with this tape. I can assure you, and so can Stu, that we never discussed assassinating Senator Olson and

Congressman Turnquist with Arthur. The entire idea is preposterous.”

“Stu?” asked the President. Garret saw another chance to weasel his way out. “That’s right, Jim. I don’t know what in the hell any of this is about. The only dealings I had with

Arthur were about your budget.”

Michael slid forward to the edge of his chair and placed his hands flat on the table.

His movement into the arena caught everyone’s eye except that of Nance, who continued to stare at Stansfield. Michael stuck a hand in front of Stansfield’s face and snapped his fingers, drawing Nance’s attention to him. “Senator Olson was a very good friend of mine, and I’m not in the mood to play these little games.” Michael pointed a finger at

Nance’s face. “You, Garret, and Arthur Higgins conspired to kill Senator Olson and

Congressman Turnquist. No one made a fake tape, and Director Stansfield didn’t force a false confession out of Higgins.

Let’s cut the crap and get down to business.”

“Mr. O’Rourke,’ replied Nance, “you are a very young man, and you do not fully understand the lengths to which some people are willing to go to get what they want in life. Do you think Mr. Stansfield rose to be the director of the world’s premier spy agency by being a Boy Scout?

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No, he will go to almost any length to get what he wants. Congressman, you are out of your league on this one. Maybe it would be best if you stepped outside and let us talk to Director Stansfield alone.” Pain began shooting through Michael’s temples as his anger grew. He fought to suppress it as he rose to his feet. Slowly, he took off his jacket and laid it over the back of his chair. Michael leaned across the table and stuck his hand in front of Nance’s face, his forefinger and thumb separated by less than an inch. “Mr.

Nance, I have about this much patience with you right now. You can either cut the shit and admit that you had Senator Olson and Congressman Turnquist killed, or I am going to walk out this door right now and hold a press conference.”

“Congressman O’Rourke, that would be a direct threat to the national security of the

United States of America, and I would be forced to stop you by whatever means necessary. Now, if you would please step outside, we would like to speak to Director

Stansfield alone for a minute.”

Michael took off his watch and placed it on the table. After tucking his tie into his shirt he pointed at Nance and said, “You are going to keep your slick mouth shut for the next two minutes while I talk to Mr. Garret, and I swear if you utter a single word, I’m going to come over there and knock your fucking head off.” Michael turned immediately to Garret. “All right, you’ve got one chance. I know you were involved, you know you were involved, and Director Stansfield knows you were involved.” Michael walked toward the far end of the table and continued talking. “You can either admit to what you did and live the rest of your life in relative comfort, or you can stand trial and spend the rest of your life rotting in jail.” Michael rounded the end of the table and started down the side where Garret and Nance were sitting.

“Of course, that’s assuming the assassins don’t get to you first.”

Garret was sitting closest to him.

Michael grabbed Garret’s chair and turned it toward him so Garret couldn’t look at

Nance. “You see, the assassins also wrote in the letter that if you and Nance tried to squirm your way out of this, they would hunt you down and kill you.”

“Mr. President,” shouted Nance. “This behavior is entirely unacceptable!” Before

Nance could get his next sentence out, Michael shouted, “I told you to keep your mouth shut!

That’s my last warning!” Garret began shaking and Michael leaned in closer, placing his hands on the armrests and bringing his face within inches of Garret’s. “What’s it going to be? The choice is simple.

Either you admit to what you did and walk away from this with your life, or you deny it and the whole country comes crashing down on you.

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Those assassins will release that tape if Nance doesn’t announce his resignation by noon tomorrow.” Michael screamed, “Now tell the truth!”

“I… I…” Garret started to stammer. “Stu, don’t answer him.”

Nance reached for the phone to call for the Secret Service agents standing watch outside the soundproof room. “I don’t know who in the hell you think you are.” Michael saw Nance reach for the phone, and with both hands on the armrests of Garret’s chair he jerked it out of his way. The chair, with Garret in it, slid across the floor and bounced into the wall. Michael took one step forward, raising his clenched left fist to his shoulder.

Nance had just got the phone to his ear when he looked up to see the looming O’Rourke.

Michael’s fist came crashing down like a piston, smacking Nance square in the nose and sending the national security adviser back in his chair and then springing him forward, his head thumping off the solid oak table. The only thing that kept Nance from falling to the floor was that his chin was stuck on the edge of the table. His arms dangled at his sides, and a small pool of blood formed under his nose. Neither Stansfield nor the

President moved. Michael turned to Garret with his fist still cocked. Lunging forward, he grabbed Garret by the tie, yanked him to his feet, and slammed him against the wall.

Michael released the tie and grabbed him by the throat. Garret reached up with both hands and pawed at Michael’s fist. O’Rourke’s hold was too strong. Michael squeezed harder, cutting off Garret’s windpipe.

In a voice loud enough so only Garret could hear, Michael said, “If I had it my way, I

would kill you right now. You’ve got one more chance to come clean and admit to what you did. If you don’t, I’m going to grab you by the hair and slam your face off that table until your head splits in half!” Michael let go of Garret’s throat and took ahold of the small patch of hair on the back of his head. Swinging him around, he presented the shaking chief of staff to Stansfield and the President. O’Rourke growled, “Tell them the truth!” Garret began whimpering, “It wasn’t my fault. It was Mike and Arthur’s idea.” The

President looked at Garret in utter shock. He couldn’t believe any of this was happening.

“It wasn’t my fault, Jim. I swear it wasn’t my fault,” pleaded Garret. Garret’s denial cum admission brought a second wave of uncontrollable anger rising up from within

O’Rourke. He tossed Garret to the side, and as he bounced off the wall, he was met square in the jaw by O’Rourke’s fist.

Garret’s upper body twisted briefly in the direction of the blow, and then his knees buckled, bringing his body crashing to the floor.

Michael stood over Garret for several seconds, adrenaline rushing through his veins, fighting the urge to kick his teeth in. He took several deep breaths and got control of himself. Turning, he looked at a wide-eyed and stunned President Stevens. Michael ignored him and walked back to where he had been sitting. As he put on his watch, he said, “Director Stansfield, I’ll leave you and the President alone to work out the rest of the details. Call me later and we’ll talk.”

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Grabbing his suit coat off the back of the chair, he walked to the door. Neither

Stansfield nor the President said a word.

THE NORTHWEST WING OF MIKE NANCE’S RURAL-MARYLAND HORSE

ranch was decorated in a turn-of-the-century Western decor. The large room was forty feet long and half as wide. Dark oak paneling covered both the walls and the ceiling.

Three antique brass-and-wood ceiling fans helped partition the room into thirds. On the right was an ornate wood bar that looked as if it had been plucked out of an old Western saloon.

The middle of the room was dominated by a stone fireplace with a buffalo head mounted above the mantel, and the far end was occupied by a billiards table. The walls were adorned with expensive oil paintings of Western landscapes and U.S. cavalry troops and Indians in the throes of battle. The owner of this expensive collection of American art had never learned to appreciate the beauty and history of the room. His input into its decoration was limited to writing the check to the interior decorator. Mike Nance stood in front of the bar with a glass of Scotch in his hand. It was his third in less than an hour.

Nance stared at his reflection in the mirror that adorned the wall behind the bar. The white bandage over his nose made his two black eyes look worse. With a tense restraint, he reached up and carefully pulled off the bandage. He set the blood-soiled bandage on the bar next to his drink and decided to leave the two pieces of crimson-colored cotton in his nose. Looking into the mirror, he could see over his shoulder that the sun was floating downward in the western sky. Nance turned and walked to a set of French doors that looked to the west and over his estate. The soon-to-be-former national security adviser judged that in another hour it would be dark. He took a drink of Scotch and again asked himself if there was a way out. He was not ready to give up.

His resignation did not have to be announced until noon tomorrow, and until then he wasn’t done. Nance heard the clamor of frantic footsteps coming down the hall, and a moment later the door sprang open. Stu Garret entered wearing a tan trench coat and minus two of his upper front teeth. Garret approached with his hands thrust outward in an apologetic fashion. “I’m sorry, Mike. I didn’t want to talk, but I didn’t see any other way out.” Nance had not seen Garret since he’d been knocked unconscious earlier in the day.

An hour earlier Nance had called the loose-lipped chief of staff and summoned him to his ranch.

Garret continued to blab, but Nance wasn’t listening. As soon as Garret came within striking distance, Nance reached out in a wide arc and slapped him in the face. The sound of skin on skin rang out through the long room. Garret immediately stepped backward and clutched his cheek. With his eyes opened wide he screamed, “What in the hell did you do that for?” Nance felt a wave of satisfaction wash over him. He smiled ever so slightly at Garret. “That is for not keeping your mouth shut.”

While rubbing the sore spot on his face, Garret shot back, “This whole thing wasn’t my fucking idea, Mike. I can’t believe I let-” Nance raised his hand in preparation to strike again and took a step forward.

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Garret cowered backward and put his hand up to block the blow. Nance did not hit him. Instead, he kept his hand above his head and said, “I am the only thing standing between you and your grave, Stu. Lest you’ve forgotten, Arthur took out a contract on you before he died, and I’m the only one who can rescind it.” Taking another step backward,Garret said, “Well, why in the hell don’t you call it off?.”

“It’s not that simple, Stu. And besides, I’m not so sure I want to.”

“What do you mean, you don’t want to?” asked a panicked Garret. Nance finally lowered his hand and took a deep breath. “If you could have kept your mouth shut, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

“What about the fucking tape?” asked Garret with bugged eyes. “They had that damn tape of Arthur admitting everything. That wasn’t my fault.”

“I knew I should have never listened to Arthur.” Nance glanced upward and shook his head in frustration. “I told him you didn’t have the stomach for this.”

“Hey, I was fine until that madman O’Rourke started flexing his muscles.”

“You were cracking long before he entered the picture.” Nance turned and looked out the window for a moment. His thoughts settled on O’Rourke. “I wonder if Mr. O’Rourke knows more than he was letting on.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think it might be worth our while to have a little chat with the young

Congressman.” Nance looked past Garret and honed in on his own reflection in the mirror behind the bar. He reached up and gently touched his swollen, purple nose. “Besides, I’d like the opportunity to give him a little payback.”

“Mike, are you fucking crazy? We’ve been given a chance to walk away from this whole mess. Let’s take the deal and cut our losses.” Nance wheeled toward Garret, causing the chief of staff to abruptly step backward. “I have worked my whole life to get where I am.” Nance stepped closer and Garret retreated, matching his strides. “I am more than willing to gamble on the fact that O’Rourke might know more than he claims. We have nothing else to lose thanks to you and your lack of composure.” Nance turned away from Garret and walked toward the door.

“Wait right here, Stu. I’ll be back in a minute.” Nance walked to the opposite end of the four-thousand-square-foot rambler. He stopped at the door to his private study and punched in the eight-digit code for the security lock on the door. The light turned from red to green and he twisted the handle.

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After he entered the room the door closed behind him and automatically locked.

Walking around the desk, Nance turned on his computer and sat in an old wooden swivel chair. He rocked back and forth and waited for the program manager to come on-line. He went into his personal database after entering his password, then pulled up the file manager.

Pressing down on the mouse, he scrolled through a list of files until he found the one he was looking for. Nance double-clicked the mouse, and the system asked for another password. Nance entered it, and a moment later he was staring at the name he needed.

Nance reached down and opened the right drawer of the desk, revealing a secure phone.

He picked up the handset and punched in the number. After several whirling noises, a curt voice answered on the other end, “Hello.”

“Jarod, this is Mike. I need you to do a little job for me.” There was a slight pause.

“How difficult?” In a calm voice Nance replied, “No danger to you. The job is rather delicate though. Why don’t we say. an even fifty.” Michael O’Rourke was sound asleep.

The events of the last three days had left him exhausted. After his meetings earlier in the day at the White House and Langley, Michael made a brief appearance at a private visitation for Senator Olson and then went home to sleep. He had just enough energy to make it up the stairs to his bedroom before falling facedown and passing out. O’Rourke had lain in this position, without moving, for almost five hours. Michael stirred slightly at the noise of someone in his room. He was deep in a dream, and at first, he couldn’t decide if someone was really in his room or if it was part of his dream. He made an effort to roll over, but his arms were pinned underneath him and asleep. The next thing he knew he felt a hand on his head. His heart began to race, and his eyes popped open. It took a moment for his eyes to come into focus, and when they did, they revealed a concerned Liz

Scarlatti hovering over him.

O’Rourke rolled onto his side and freed his rubbery arms. He reached up for Liz and pulled her close. Scarlatti smiled and kissed his ear.

“I’ve been calling you all afternoon. Where have you been?”

O’Rourke rubbed his eyes and let out a big yawn. Then, looking toward the window, he asked, “What time is it?”

“Ten after six.”

“Wow.”

O’Rourke stretched and twisted his body, letting out a groan. “That was the nap of the century.”

“How long have you been asleep?” Scarlatti asked, running her fingers through his thick, black hair. “I’m not sure.

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I think since around one.” O’Rourke squeezed Liz tight and kissed her neck. “Mmm . .

. you feel good.”

“So do you. I haven’t seen enough of you lately.”

“We’re going to have to rectify that.” Rolling over, Michael pinned Liz underneath him. She wrapped her arms tightly around his broad back and pulled him close, kissing him. O’Rourke’s midsection growled loudly, and Liz froze her kiss. “Was that your stomach?”

O’Rourke nodded. “What have you eaten today?” O’Rourke looked up at the headboard while he tried to remember what he had eaten. “I’m not sure.

It was a pretty hectic morning.”

“Are you going to tell me about it?”

“Honey, I don’t think you’d believe me if I told you.” With a cautious tone Liz asked, “Did you find out who is behind Erik’s death?”

“Yep.”

“Who?”

“I’m not sure you want to know.” Liz pushed him off her and sat up.

“Yes, I do.” Michael was on his back looking up at her. She had that serious, stubborn look on her face. “Honey, this is some pretty serious shit. I honestly think you would be better off not knowing any of it.”

Liz poked him in the chest. “Do you remember when you told me the other day that if

I ever divulged that Scott Coleman was behind the first four assassinations you would walk out of my life and never talk to me again?” Michael nodded yes. “Well, I can’t live the rest of my life with this big secret hanging between us. If you don’t trust my word that

I will keep your secret, then maybe I should consider walking out of your life.” The comment stung, and Michael propped himself up on his elbows.

“It’s not that I don’t trust you, it’s just that. the information could be dangerous.”

“I’m a big girl,” Liz said in a patronizing tone.

“If you don’t trust me enough, then we have some problems.” She stared unflinchingly at him. Michael struggled with what to do. He was tired, he was sick of the entire mess, and he just wanted the whole thing to be over. He rubbed his eyes for a second and then sat up.

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“All right. Here is what happened, and it goes without saying that you can never repeat any of this.” Michael started to recount the events of the last twenty-four hours.

Again he omitted Seamus’s involvement with Coleman and failed to mention how they had found out about Arthur.

He also neglected to tell her that he had knocked out Stu Garret and Mike Nance.

When Michael had finished telling his edited version of the story, there was a brief silence while Liz gathered her thoughts. With a look of deep concern she asked the question that hit closest to home. “Who killed Arthur?”

“Scott.”

“Do you think the President was involved?”

“I’m not sure. Stansfield doesn’t think so, but he’s going to look into it.” Liz bit her lower lip. “I can’t believe the FBI is going along with this.”

“They have no other choice. If Nance and Garret’s involvement in this were to be made public …” Michael shook his head. “The whole country would erupt.” Scarlatti didn’t respond. She had a far-off look in her eye. Michael grabbed her by the cheeks and said, “Don’t even think about it, Liz. This story can never go public.” She pulled his hand away.

“It’s not right, Michael. The people deserve to know. It’s not acceptable to have the

CIA and the FBI running around behind our backs conspiring to cover up murders that were committed by the President’s top advisers.”

“If this story were to get out”-Michael held up a finger-“number one, we would lose all credibility in the international community. Number two, the CIA would be shut down for good-” “That might not be such a bad thing.” O’Rourke shook his head. “The CIA

does more good for this country than you will ever know. The only time we ever hear about them is when they screw up. Their successes far outweigh their failures.

It’s not like they can hold a press conference and announce that they’ve recruited one of Saddam Hussein’s top generals to spy for us.”

“I don’t like the idea of all this secrecy. It’s wrong.

It’s the people’s right to know.” In a soft voice Michael asked, “Even if it tears the country apart?” Liz silently struggled with the question for a moment. “I gave you my word, and I’m not going to go back on it. I might not like this whole mess, but I’m just happy it’s over and you’re safe.”

“Thank you.” Michael’s stomach growled again and Liz said, “I guess someone’s hungry.”

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“I’m starved.”

“How about I make us a nice quiet dinner for two, and then we spend the rest of the night right here in bed?” Michael grinned. “What’s in it for me?” Scarlatti laughed. “Oh, you’ll see.” Liz grabbed him by the arm and led him toward the bathroom.

“You take a shower and get cleaned up. I’ll go to the store and get some stuff for dinner.” She smacked him on the butt and pushed him toward the bathroom. Scarlatti then headed downstairs and grabbed Duke’s leash off the coat rack. The yellow Lab, upon hearing the familiar jingle of his leash, appeared excitedly at Liz’s side, and a moment later they were out the door and on their way to the Georgetown Safeway. Director

Stansfield looked around the conference table in his office and noted how tired the other attendees were. FBI director Roach sat slouched with his chin resting on his chest, his eyes open but red. Skip McMahon was yawning, and Irene Kennedy was taking her glasses off so she could rub her eyes. It had been a long day, and none of them had gotten much sleep the night before. Assessing that any further work would be useless, and that he didn’t have the strength to argue anymore, Stansfield decided it was time to wrap things up.

“Skip, I apologize for putting you in this situation, but there is no other option. If we call off the investigation, too many people will want to know why.” McMahon shook his head. “It’s a waste of manpower.

I have over two hundred agents working on these assassinations, and they sure as hell could be used on other cases. cases we can eventually bring to trial.”

“It’s not an entire waste,” stated Stansfield in his most conciliatory voice. “It’s very important that we find out who these assassins are, even if we can’t bring them to trial.”

“I’ll give you that. I just don’t want this manhunt to turn into a two year ordeal and cover-up with hundreds of agents wasting their time.”

“I agree with you, Skip,” replied Roach, “but there is no other way to do it. It’s important that we find out who the assassins are, and we have to keep the investigation going or the press will go nuts. When the timing is right, I’ll transfer you and put you in charge of something else.” McMahon nodded his acceptance. “I know that we have no other choice, but what I can’t accept is Nance and Garret getting away with this scot-free.

God, I’d love to get my hands on them.” The senior agent’s face was twisted with anger.

Stansfield smiled and stood.

McMahon’s honesty had grown on him over the last several weeks. The CIA’s top spook walked over and patted McMahon on the shoulder. “I wouldn’t worry too much, Skip. If they step out of line, I’m sure our mystery assassins will give them a call. It’s been a long day. Let’s get some sleep, and we’ll talk in the morning.” Everyone nodded in agreement and rose to leave. Stansfield walked them to the door and then asked Kennedy

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to stay behind for a minute. Stansfield closed the door, and he and Kennedy walked over to the director’s desk.

Stansfield began placing several files in his briefcase. “Irene, what is your read on

Congressman O’Rourke?”

“How do you mean?”

“Do you think he knows more than he’s telling us?” Irene pursed her lips while she pondered the question. “I suppose it’s a possibility.”

Stansfield turned and placed a single file in his safe. “I think we should run a check on him, but do it quietly. He’s not the type of person we want to upset, but all the same, I

think we need to see if he as any ties to these assassins.” Kennedy nodded. “I’ll handle it personally.” THE MAROON .AUDI DROVE CASUALLY DOWN THE STREETS OF

GEORGETOWN. The fifty-four-year-old man behind the wheel was a former U.S.

intelligence operative turned freelance operative, or “utility man,” as he was referred to by his fellow spooks. He had received a call from a man for whom he had done a lot of lucrative work over the years.

If his old acquaintance was telling the truth, and there was no security, the job would be simple. The unimpressive, gray-bearded man drove past the house twice and parked.

For several minutes he pointed a directional microphone at each room of the house.

When he was relatively certain that only one person was home, he put away the equipment and got out of the car. He walked to the trunk to make sure it was unlocked, and while he did so, he did a quick check of the street. After looking up at the lit windows of the house in question, he patted his pockets to make sure he had everything and then put on a pair of black leather gloves.

Michael felt ten times better after his long, hot shower. He dried off as best as he could in the mist-filled bathroom and then tried to wipe the steam off the mirror. He cleaned off a small patch and noticed that although he felt better, he still had dark marks under both eyes.

After pulling on jeans and a well-worn gray sweatshirt, he heard the doorbell ring. As he bounced down the stairs, he wondered briefly who it could be and then realized Liz had probably forgotten her keys.

Michael hit the landing with a thud and grabbed for the doorknob.

Yanking the door open, he said, “You forgot your keys again, huh?”

When the door opened fully, O’Rourke froze for an instant. He didn’t recognize the gray-bearded man wearing an olive trench coat and a brown fedora. Before Michael could think, the fatherly individual smiled and asked, “Congressman O’Rourke?”

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Michael looked down at the older man and replied, “Ah… yes.” With the smile still on his face, the visitor retrieved his right hand from his pocket as if to shake Michael’s hand.

In a smooth, nonchalant motion he extended a Tazer stun gun and squeezed the trigger. A

metal-and-plastic dart streaked out of the end of the electric-shock gun and embedded itself in Michael’s stomach. O’Rourke went rigid as two hundred thousand volts of electricity shot through his body. He took two steps backward and then collapsed. As he fell to the ground, he landed on a thin wooden table in the entryway, shattering the fragile piece of wood beneath him and sending several framed photos crashing to the floor.

Michael lay clutching his stomach, unable to move. The not-so-harmless visitor moved with precision. Before Michael hit the floor, the man had already stepped into the foyer and closed the door. Next he pulled a syringe gun from his left pocket and held it to

O’Rourke’s neck. He depressed the trigger and sent enough muscle relaxant into the

Congressman’s system to keep him nice and docile for the next hour. Plastic handcuffs were quickly fastened to both O’Rourke’s wrists and ankles, and a strip of duct tape was placed over his mouth. Next the intruder moved to the window and looked outside. He extinguished the light over the front door and also the one in the hallway. After scanning the street, he returned to O’Rourke and with amazing ease hefted the much larger

O’Rourke over his shoulder. One more quick check of the street and the man was out the door and down the steps. He carried O’Rourke to the rear of his car, where he lifted the already unlocked trunk and deposited O’Rourke like a sack of potatoes. Michael hit with a thud, and the older man checked to make sure his hostage’s arms and legs were out of the way, then closed the trunk. He climbed behind the wheel of his car and pulled away from the curb. One block away, he grabbed his secure digital phone and punched in a number. After one ring Mike Nance answered, “Hello.”

“I’ve retrieved that package for you. I should be at your place in less than thirty minutes.”

“Any problems?”

“None.”

“I’ll be waiting.” The former intelligence operative hung up the secure phone and sped off in the direction of Maryland. He smiled briefly at the thought of collecting fifty thousand dollars for such an easy job and then began to wonder what Mike Nance wanted from the Congressman in his trunk. Scarlatti walked down the tree-lined street with a bag of groceries in one hand and Duke’s leash in the other.

Autumn-colored leaves dotted the sidewalk and curb. A chilling breeze kicked up as she turned onto O’Rourke’s street. She looked forward to spending the night with

Michael, and there would be next week. They were scheduled to leave on Sunday afternoon to go back to Minnesota for Senator Olson’s funeral.

She didn’t relish the somber occasion, but it would be nice to get out of D.C. for a while.

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Northern Minnesota was beautiful this time of the year. Duke made the turn up the steps to Michael’s house, and Liz followed with an outstretched arm. She fished for her keys and, after finding the right one, opened the door. Duke ran inside, and Liz let go of the leash.

She could take it off after she got rid of the groceries. She turned on the light and went to set the groceries down but froze. The table she wanted to set them on was lying on the floor in a half dozen pieces. Liz called out Michael’s name. She listened intently for a reply, then yelled his name louder. Duke came back down the hallway and rubbed his neck against her leg. Scarlatti reached down and patted his head. She set the groceries on the floor and headed for the stairs, calling Michael’s name again. Her heart began to quicken, and she called for Duke to follow.

Once upstairs, she inspected the steam-streaked mirror in the bathroom and then checked the den before heading back downstairs, all the time calling Michael’s name more frantically. She flew down the stairs to the basement and threw open the door to the garage. His truck was there. She turned and sprinted back up the stairs to the kitchen and checked to see if his keys were on the hook-they were. Scarlatti bit her lip while she thought of all the things Michael had just told her.

She couldn’t help but think the worst. I was only gone for thirty minutes, she thought to herself. She took a deep breath and tried to think of where he could be, but her mind kept coming back to the broken table in the front hallway.

Her hand sprang for the phone on the kitchen wall, but she stopped short. “Should I

call the police?” she asked out loud. She willed herself to calm down and not overreact.

“I’ll call Tim. Maybe Tim and Seamus stopped by, and they went to pick me up at the store.”

Scarlatti quickly punched in Tim’s phone number, and after several rings Michael’s brother answered. “Tim, this is Liz. Do you know where Michael is?” Tim paused for a second. “I think he’s at his house.”

“No, he isn’t.” Liz’s voice grew more frantic. “I’m here right now!”

She spoke at a rapid pace. “I came by an hour ago, and he was napping.

I got him up, and he got in the shower while I went to the store. I just got back, and he’s nowhere in the house … and that little table by the front door is smashed. like someone fell on it. и …

Something isn’t right, Tim.”

“Calm down, Liz. Is his truck gone?”

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“No! His truck is here … his keys are here … I was only gone for a half hour. He knew I was coming right back. Something bad has happened. I’m calling the police!”

“No!” yelled Tim. “Seamus and I will be over in less than five minutes.

Try to stay calm, and don’t call the police until we get there.” Liz hung up the phone and paced. She asked herself, who would take him and why? Could it be Coleman? No

…. What about Stansfield? Michael had said it himself. If the story were to get out, the

CIA would be shut down immediately. Liz looked at the phone again and hesitated for only a second. She called information, got the general number for the CIA, and hit the connect button. A man answered on the third ring and Liz said, “Director Stansfield, please.” The operator remained professional despite the fact that someone was calling the

Agency’s general number on a Saturday evening and asking to talk to the director. “The director isn’t in right now. May I take a message?”

“Yes. I assume you have a way to get ahold of him in an emergency?”

There was a pause, then a hesitant, “Yes, if the message warrants it.”

“Believe me it does! Tell him Liz Scarlatti from the Washington Reader wants to talk about the events surrounding Arthur Higgins, Mike Nance, Stu Garret, and Congressman

Michael O’Rourke. Give him that message immediately, and have him call me back at the following number in the next five minutes, or I’m going to press with what I have.” Liz gave the man Michael’s number and hung up. The day had been long, and it was time to go home and get some sleep. Kennedy and Stansfield exited the director’s office, and the door automatically locked behind them.

Stansfield transferred his briefcase from his right hand to his left and went to shake

Kennedy’s hand. Before he could complete the gesture, his bodyguard approached from behind a desk in the reception area with a deeply concerned look on his face. “Sir, I just received a strange call from our operator.” The man looked down at a piece of paper. “A

Liz Scarlatti from the Washington Reader called. She would like to ask you about the relationship between Arthur Higgins, Mike Nance, Stu Garret, and Michael O’Rourke.

She left a number and said if she doesn’t hear from you in five minutes, she’s going to press with what she has.”

Stansfield’s tired shoulders slumped another several inches as he reached for the paper. Without saying a word, he turned to go back to his office and Kennedy followed.

Stansfield dropped his briefcase and his jacket on the nearest chair and walked behind his desk. “How in the hell could this get out so fast?” asked Kennedy. Stansfield shook his head. “It’s either O’Rourke or the White House.” He set the piece of paper down and pointed to a second phone on the credenza. “If you would please, Irene. Call down to

Charlie and have him run a trace on this call.” Stansfield began dialing the number. The startling ring of the phone caused Liz to jump.

She snatched the phone off the wall and said, “Hello.”

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“Miss Scarlatti?” asked Stansfield. “Yes, this is she.”

“This is Director Stansfield. I just received your message, and I’m a little confused.”

Liz clutched the phone tightly and tried to stay calm.

“I know everything. I know all about how Higgins and Nance and Garret were behind the-” Stansfield cut her off. “We don’t need to get into specifics, Miss Scarlatti. Where are you calling from?” Stansfield had no desire to discuss this issue on an open line. “What does that matter?” Liz heard a click at the front door and her heart leapt. She looked down the hall hoping to see Michael, but instead Tim and Seamus came through the door.

“I need to know if you’re on a secure line,” said Stansfield. Liz looked at the phone and said, “I doubt it, and I really don’t care.” Tim and Seamus entered the kitchen and listened to Liz talk. “Congressman Michael O’Rourke is missing from his house, and if he isn’t returned within the next hour, I am going to wire every news service on the planet the real story about what has been going on in Washington over the last week.” Seamus’s eyes opened wide.

“Who are you talking to?” Liz turned her back on Seamus and Tim and covered her other ear. “Hold on a minute,” continued Stansfield. “How do you know Congressman

O’Rourke is missing?”

“I’m standing in his kitchen with his brother and grandfather,” shouted Liz. “He is gone, and if you don’t return him within the hour, your little secret is going to be on the front page of every paper tomorrow morning.”

“I have no idea where Congressman O’Rourke is,” protested Stansfield.

“Well, you’d better find him. You have one hour.” Liz slammed the phone back into its cradle.

Stansfield stared at the receiver and shook his head. Kennedy pressed a button and spoke briefly into the phone. When she was done, she looked at her boss and said, “The call was made from O’Rourke’s house.”

Stansfield pinched the bridge of his nose. “It has to be Nance and Garret.” Stansfield slowly shook his head from side to side as he continued to keep pressure on his nose.

“What in the hell are those two idiots up to?”

“Any chance the call was a fake?” asked Kennedy. “I doubt it.”

Stansfield looked at Kennedy and grabbed his phone. “I’m going to call the President and find out if he knows where his chief of staff and national security adviser are.”

Stansfield punched in the number for the Secret Service command post at the White

House. After several rings an agent answered and Stansfield identified himself. “I need to speak to the President immediately.” Stansfield tapped a pen on a pad of paper while he

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waited to be connected. After several clicks the President answered. “Thomas, what’s wrong?”

“We seem to have a problem, sir.”

Stansfield relayed the pertinent facts of his conversation with Scarlatti, but referred to her only as a reporter. The President let out a loud sigh and said, “For Christ sake… why would anyone want to take O’Rourke?” Stansfield did not respond. He instead chose to put the pressure on the President and see just how genuine his reaction was. “I can’t believe this. I thought this mess was over. Who would take him?” repeated an exasperated Stevens. “We’re not sure.”

“Thomas, you have my authority to do whatever it takes to get Congressman

O’Rourke back, and make sure that tape isn’t released!”

Stansfield paused for a moment and then asked, “Sir, do you know where your national security adviser and chief of staff are?” President Stevens didn’t answer immediately. The connection between O’Rourke’s disappearance and Stansfield’s question was obvious. “No, but I’m sure as hell going to find out! I’ll call you back!” The

President slammed the phone down and screamed for the nearest Secret Service agent.

Stansfield put the phone down and tried to gauge the President’s reaction. Stevens seemed genuinely surprised, and there was no need for him to take a chance … unless

Nance had threatened to drag him down.

Stansfield pondered the possibility and decided that until he knew more, he couldn’t trust the President. He picked up the phone and dialed Charlie Dobbs’s extension in the

Operations Center.

Dobbs answered on the first ring, and Stansfield spoke rapidly. “What type of bird do we have over the city right now?” Dobbs hit several buttons on the keyboard to his left, and instantly a map appeared on the screen that marked the orbital path and location of every satellite in the CIA, the National Reconnaissance Office, and the National Security

Agency arsenal. “We currently have”-Dobbs squinted to read the designation that appeared next to the dot hovering above Washington, D.C.—“a KH-11 on station.” The

KH-11 Strategic Response Reconnaissance Satellite could tell the difference between a football and a basketball from a distance of 220 miles above the earth. “Zoom it in on

Mike Nance’s ranch in Maryland, and punch up all the addresses for NSA safe houses in the metro area.”

“Thomas, the people over at the NSA are going to shit when they find out we’re using a big bird to keep an eye on the President’s national security adviser.”

“If they ask, tell them the President authorized it. How long before you have real-time imaging?”

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“It should take no more than three to five minutes.”

“Good. I also want two tactical teams ready to roll ASAP. Get the choppers warmed up. We might have to move fast.”

“Do you want them in combat gear or plainclothes?” Stansfield pondered the question. Because the CIA had no domestic jurisdiction, they weren’t able to deploy their tactical teams in the same fashion that the FBI deployed their SWAT teams. Most of their work had to be done in a way that raised the least amount of attention possible. “Put one team in plainclothes and the other one in full combat gear.”

“I’ll take care of it. What’s going on, Thomas?”

“More fallout from Arthur. Call me as soon as you get the imaging of Nance’s ranch.”

Stansfield put the phone down, no longer tired. The anger that he felt toward Mike Nance had overwhelmed any feelings of exhaustion he had. Nance had been given more than enough chances. If he wanted to continue to play it rough and risky, it was time to end the game-before he could do any more damage. When Liz got off the phone, Seamus forced her to calm down and tell them what had happened.

After she was done, they inspected the broken table. Given the evidence, they had to agree with Liz that things did not look good.

Seamus looked at the broken table and then Liz. “Michael told you everything?”

“Yes.”

Seamus tried to read deeper into her curt answer. He could sense nothing-no judgment, or animosity. Seamus folded his arms and returned his thoughts to Michael. “I

don’t think it’s the CIA, or the FBI.

They were with him this afternoon. They could have done it then if they wanted to.”

“What if they wanted to wait until it was dark?” asked Liz.

Seamus shook his head. “Why take the risk? They could have called him tomorrow and had him come out to Langley on his own. They didn’t need to forcibly take him and raise suspicion. If you had called the cops and told them your boyfriend, who just happens to be a Congressman, was missing and it looked like he was taken…” Seamus rolled his eyes.

“Every law enforcement officer in D.C. would be looking for him. No way.” Seamus shook his head. “Stansfield wouldn’t risk that exposure.

Plus you have to factor in the threat of the tape being released. It has to be Nance and

Garret.” Tim thought about it for a moment.

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“You’re right. Something this desperate points towards them. Now the question is, where would they have taken him?” Seamus shrugged his shoulders.

“Hell, I have no idea. Nance has to have access to at least a dozen safe houses in metro area. They could have taken him anywhere.”

Seamus looked at his watch. “We don’t have a lot of time. We have to get him back before Nance has the chance to interrogate him. I’m going to let Coleman know what’s going on. Tim, you stay here with Liz.

I’ll call you as soon as I find something out.” He grabbed Liz by the shoulders and said, “Don’t worry, everything will be all right. If Stansfield calls, call me immediately on the car phone.” The gray-haired O’Rourke turned and left.

Seamus jumped behind the wheel of Tim’s Cherokee and pulled out into the street.

When he was several blocks away, he turned on the mobile scramble phone. He gripped the steering wheel tightly as he turned onto Wisconsin Avenue. Seamus knew he needed to act fast or they might never get Michael back. Nance had already proved that he would kill, and if he was willing to risk everything in the face of the tape’s being released, there was no telling what lengths he might go to.

Seamus tried to think ahead. How in the hell could they get Michael back? Whatever had happened, he needed to let Coleman know that Michael was missing. Seamus punched in the number for Coleman’s pager.

It rang four times and then the computerized voice told him to leave a number at the beep. Seamus entered the number for his scramble phone and followed it with three more numbers. In their months of planning, Seamus had been insistent that he and Coleman maintain secure lines of communication. They had gone through almost every possible contingency, and the one they had prepared for the most was the possibility that one or more of the group would be put under surveillance. They had designed a system where they would alert each other through digital pagers. After all, Seamus couldn’t just call

Coleman with the FBI camped out on his front step.

After hanging up the phone Seamus swore under his breath. The possibility of losing

Michael was more than he could bear. He forced himself to push the thought out of his mind. Now was not the time to get emotional. It was time to stay focused and find

Michael. He silently chided himself for putting his grandson in harm’s way. They had boxed Nance into a corner, and instead of calling it quits, he had come out swinging.

SCOTT COLEMAN WAS SITTING ON HIS COUCH TRYING TO IGNORE THAT

AN unknown number of FBI agents were watching and listening to his every move. For the last day he had been going over different plans for losing his watchers. Part of his training as a SEAL had been counter surveillance and aversive techniques. As the commander of SEAL Team Six he had been tailed more times than he could count.

Foreign Intelligence services could learn a lot by keeping tabs on America’s top

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commando. An even more dangerous scenario that he faced was the threat of reprisals by terrorists. Coleman had killed his fair share of international outlaws over the last decade, and plenty of groups out there would love to get their hands on him. What better way to settle a score, if you’re a terrorist, than to kill the leader of America’s elite counterterrorist force? Even now that he was retired, things hadn’t changed all that much. He was still under specific instructions to report any surveillance to the counterespionage people at the Naval Investigative Services. Coleman’s pager started to vibrate. He glanced down at the small screen and recognized the number for Seamus’s secure phone. After the seven-digit number came three more numbers.

These three numbers made Coleman deeply concerned. They told him that something was very wrong, and that they needed to talk immediately.

Coleman sat motionless for a half a minute or so while he pondered what his next step would be. After picking a plan, he turned off the TV and headed for the door, grabbing his keys and a dark leather jacket on the way. As he made the trip to the basement, he began guessing what might have gone wrong. He knew of Michael’s intention to use the tape, but beyond that he had no idea what had transpired over the last sixteen hours.

Coleman reached the storage lockers in the basement and walked past his own, stopping at the one used by the elderly gentleman on the first floor. He pulled out a small black flashlight and inspected the wax seals that he had dripped onto the hinges. Both were intact. It took him less than a minute to pick the small lock. Once inside the closet, he moved a stack of boxes and grabbed his stainless-steel trunk. Coleman decided it was time to clean shop. No sense leaving anything behind for the feds to find. He set the trunk down in the hallway and then relocked the door to the storage locker. Next he bent down, opened the steel trunk, and retrieved a mobile scramble phone that was identical to the one O’Rourke had. He hoisted the tan briefcase under one arm, the trunk under the other, and started for the front door of the apartment building. Across the street, in the apartment building that faced Coleman’s, Skip McMahon and the other FBI agents sprang to life. Coleman had left the house earlier in the day and gone for a jog, but other than that, he had remained in his apartment. McMahon was wearing a black Baltimore Orioles baseball hat and had a pair of large headphones covering his ears.

Through the array of directional microphones they had aimed at the apartment, he heard Coleman turn off his TV. Next he heard the jingle of keys and then the door opening and closing. McMahon snapped his walkie-talkie up to his mouth. “People, get ready. I think our boy is on the move.” The other two agents joined McMahon at the window. One of them checked in with each of the three cars that were located on nearby side streets and asked for a status report. They waited a full minute and Coleman still hadn’t exited the front door of the building.

McMahon brought the walkie-talkie back up to his mouth. “Sam, do you see anything in the alley? Over.” The agent parked at the end of the alley peered through a pair of night-vision goggles. His eyes hadn’t left the rear door since McMahon had alerted them that their subject was on the move. Sam spoke blandly into his walkie-talkie, “That’s a negative, over.” McMahon tapped his foot. “Come on, where are you?”

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He adjusted his baseball hat and continued to stare at the front door.

“Come …

on… come…on.” As McMahon finished dragging out his last phrase, Coleman came out the front door. “We’ve got him,” he said instantaneously over his radio. Squinting slightly, he continued, “He’s carrying a briefcase and another large metal case …. He’s headed for his car. Get the cars warmed up and alert dispatch.”

McMahon watched Coleman get into his Ford Explorer and shut the door.

He slapped one of the agents on the shoulder and said, “Watch the fort while we’re gone, and tell dispatch we might need a chopper. Let’s go, Pete.” McMahon and the other agent ran for the door. They flew down the back staircase and out into the alley.

McMahon jumped into the passenger seat of Special Agent Pete Arley’s Chrysler minivan, complete with child seat and a box of wet wipes on the dashboard. Arley yanked the van into drive and roared down the alley as McMahon helped coordinate the other three cars in the immediate area. The caravan of cars moved from the Adams

Morgan neighborhood into the area surrounding Howard University. Coleman’s Ford

Explorer was covered in every direction including up. An FBI surveillance helicopter had moved into position and had already painted the roof of Coleman’s truck with a laser dot.

The group of cars turned onto Michigan Avenue and passed Trinity College and the

Veterans Administration Hospital. Coleman knew what he was doing. By driving past the college campuses he was picking off the FBI cars that were trying to keep pace with him on the side streets. Michigan Avenue was the only thoroughfare in this part of town. All of the other streets dead-ended into one of the campuses.

He was not trying to lose them yet. He was only trying to make their job difficult. The former SEAL retrieved a small, handheld bug sweeper from his pocket and checked to make sure the audio warning mode was off. He started by the steering wheel and swept the entire dashboard of the car. From there he swept as much of the car as he could from the front seat. Coleman put the sensor back in his pocket and readied his scramble phone.

Next he turned up the radio and faded the speakers to the back of the truck. If any bugs had been placed in the backseat or rear cargo area, the loud music would render them useless. Coleman checked his rearview mirror one more time and then dialed the number.

After several rings Seamus answered, “Hello.”

“What’s up?”

“Michael has been taken.”

“What do you mean taken? By whom?”

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“We don’t know, but we think it may have been Nance.” Coleman swore under his breath. “Did Michael use the tape to blackmail Nance?”

“Yes.”

“Damn it. I’ve been out of the loop since last night. I think you’d better bring me up to speed on what’s transpired since then.” Coleman listened while Seamus rapidly relayed an extremely abbreviated version of what Michael had done with the tape of Arthur’s confession. Seamus then went on to explain Michael’s disappearance, Liz’s subsequent conversation with Stansfield, and finally, the one-hour time limit and ultimatum she had given the director of the CIA. Coleman processed the information as rapidly as possible and asked few questions. When Seamus was nearing the end of the story, Coleman looked at his watch and saw that they were coming up on the two-minute mark. Although these little wonders of technology that he and Seamus were using were touted as trace proof, Coleman had learned over the years to trust no piece of technology completely.

Not wanting to go over the two-minute threshold, Coleman asked for the number Seamus had been using to contact Stansfield, then told him he’d call him back in ten minutes.

Coleman hung up the phone and checked his rearview mirror for any recognizable cars. He bit down hard and began running through his options. If they didn’t get Michael back quickly, they were in a lot of trouble. Nance had to be dealt with.

In a barely audible voice Coleman said, “If I get the chance, I’m going to end this thing my way.” The maroon Audi stopped at the security gate and a pair of watchful eyes peered down at the driver from behind the bulletproof glass of the guard booth. The guard had been notified by his employer that this certain guest was to be allowed entry without inspection. Mike Nance had learned a lot from Arthur Higgins over the years, and one of these lessons was to hire his own private security people. The Secret Service would more than likely disapprove of some of his activities, and tonight was a perfect example. The heavy gate began to slide back on its tracks, and the guard nodded for the driver of the car to proceed. The Audi sped down the long, newly paved driveway and took the right fork about a quarter of a mile from the house. Jarod pulled the car up to the main entrance and popped the trunk. Leaving the keys in the ignition, he exited the car and walked to the rear. Jarod lifted the trunk and studied O’Rourke, who was curled up in the fetal position. The Congressman looked through squinted eyes at the strange man who had abducted him. Although he felt sluggish, the drugs had not affected his mind. The thirty-minute car ride in the darkness of the trunk had given him time to figure out, with relative certainty, what was happening. Only one person could be behind this. Garret was too big of an emotional wimp to have the balls to do something like this by himself, so it had to be Nance. Michael knew his only hope was if Liz had made it back to the house and called Tim and Seamus. If she hadn’t, Michael had no doubt that Nance would shoot him full of drugs and get him to sing, just as he and Coleman had done with Arthur. He had to buy some time until they found him. The grandfatherly-looking man was silhouetted by a pair of lights that hung next to the entrance of the house. He pulled a medium-sized, matte black combat knife from inside his trench coat and leaned into the trunk. The knife slid in between O’Rourke’s legs, and with a quick jerk the plastic ankle cuffs were cut.

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The man transferred the blade from his right to his left hand and helped Michael out of the trunk. O’Rourke felt the increased effects of whatever had been pumped into him as soon as his feet hit the pavement.

His legs were unsteady, and he staggered slightly to the side. Jarod hung on to him by the arm and prevented him from toppling to the ground.

The two of them proceeded toward the front door, and after about five steps Michael regained enough of his balance that he could walk without assistance. When they reached the house, the door opened from the inside, revealing a grinning Mike Nance. “Good evening, gentlemen.”

Nance was wearing a pair of dark wool slacks, a white button-down, and a blue cardigan. O’Rourke stared at the smug grin on Nance’s face and fought back the urge to reach out and smash in his face. He took a step forward, but the stranger holding on to his arm prevented him from taking another. O’Rourke froze as Jarod dug two fingers into the pressure point under his right arm. Michael’s whole right side buckled under the penetrating pain, and he slouched in a convulsive jerk.

“Now, now, Congressman, behave yourself.” Nance waved his finger at O’Rourke as if Michael were a little schoolboy. “You don’t want to upset my friend.” Nance nodded for the two men to follow and started down the hallway. Jarod loosened his grip slightly and prodded Michael forward.

The three men went down the hall and entered the large game room.

O’Rourke looked to his right and saw Stu Garret standing behind the bar with a drink in his hand. O’Rourke glared at the President’s chief of staff, and Garret averted his eyes.

Nance pointed toward Michael’s mouth and said, “Jarod, you can take off the tape.” The shorter man reached up and yanked the gray duct tape off O’Rourke’s mouth. Michael ignored the slight sting and kept his eyes fixed on Garret. Nance spoke from a discreetly safe distance. “Congressman, we have some unfinished busness from this morning.”

O’Rourke stared at Nance in disgust and said, “I finished my business with you when I

broke your nose.” Nance turned and looked at his reflection in the mirror behind the bar.

He reached up and gently touched his swollen nose. “Yes, I suppose I owe you for that, don’t I?” Turning back to face O’Rourke, Nance said flatly, “Jarod, would you please break Congressman O’Rourke’s nose for me?” Michael had no time to react. The man standing next to him grabbed his handcuffed wrists and forced them down. Jarod’s free hand raised up like a tomahawk and came crashing down in a karate chop across the bridge of Michael’s nose. There was a loud pop as O’Rourke’s nose moved a quarter of an inch to the left.

Michael stumbled back, his head reeling. O’Rourke had had his nose broken twice before while playing hockey in college, but he never remembered it hurting this bad. He

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gritted his teeth in an attempt to try to fight back the pain as blood streamed out of his nostrils and over his upper lip. Nance walked back over from the bar and proclaimed, “I

don’t like resorting to violence, Mr. O’Rourke, but I do believe in an eye for an eye. Your behavior this morning was very uncivilized.”

“And I suppose killing Erik Olson was civilized. Spare me your bullshit.” Michael wiped some blood on the sleeve of his gray sweatshirt. Nance nodded to Jarod, and before Michael could react, a fist slammed into his lower back, sending him crashing to the floor.

Grimacing from the agonizing pain in his right kidney, O’Rourke pushed himself up onto his knees and looked at Nance’s shoes. Michael had never been one to take things lying down, and he reasoned the longer he kept them from asking some real questions, the better his chances were.

Slowly, he brought his head up. His eyes rested on Nance’s white shirt.

O’Rourke felt his mouth filling with blood, and as he got to his feet, he spit it at

Nance. A large glob of blood and saliva splattered Nance’s face and white shirt. O’Rourke had less than a second to enjoy his small victory. He was instantly knocked to his knees by another punch to the kidney. Nance, infuriated by the indignity of being spat on, stepped forward and slapped Michael across the face. The slap barely moved Michael’s head. O’Rourke paused to gain his breath and then looked up at Nance. Through clenched teeth, he forced a smile to his lips and asked, “Who taught you how to hit like that, your mom?”

Nance’s complexion turned a shade darker and his hands started to tremble as he fought to control his anger. In a half yell, he barked, “Jarod, teach this man some respect!” O’Rourke knew more pain was on the way so he rolled from his knees to the floor and away from his assailant. When he completed the turn and stopped by the back of a couch five feet away, he looked up and saw Jarod approaching with his stun gun extended. Michael saw something pop from the end, and then every inch of his body spasmed as electricity shot through his veins.

While he squirmed on the floor, he felt himself losing consciousness.

His vision sparkled and then went dark. The last thing he remembered before losing consciousness was the faint ringing of a phone.

Stansfield paced behind his desk while Kennedy relayed possible action scenarios one after another. This was one of Irene’s strong suits.

She was a master at taking problems, plugging in different variables, and predicting probable outcomes. The Operations Center in the basement was humming like the bridge of an aircraft carrier headed into battle. Charlie Dobbs looked down at the floor from his crow’s nest and watched his people move with speed and precision. He was wearing a

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headset and pressed the speed dial for Stansfield’s office. The director answered and

Dobbs said, “The choppers are warmed up and the tactical teams are ready to roll. We also have the real-time thermalimaging on-line.”

“What do you see?” Dobbs looked at the high-resolution, fifty-inch screen that was mounted in the wall behind his desk. “The only thing to report is the arrival of a car.

Otherwise everything looks pretty quiet.”

“What kind of car?” asked Stansfield.

“It’s hard to tell with the thermal imaging, but it looks to be a sedan of some type. A

couple of my imaging analysts are running computer enhancements on the stuff right now. They should be able to tell us more in about ten minutes. The car arrived just after we came online.

One person got out. They retrieved something from the trunk and went into the house.” Stansfield’s eyelids tightened. “Did you say the trunk?”

“Yeah.”

“What did they get from the trunk?”

“I don’t know.”

“How big was it?” Dobbs sighed apologetically. “Thomas, we can’t tell with the nighttime thermal imaging on the KH-11. If it was daytime, I’d know more, or if it was one of the new KH-12s, we’d have no problem, but the thermal imaging has a lower resolution.”

“Get your boys on it right away! Tell them to forget about the make of the car for now. I want to know how big the object was that was taken from the trunk, and let me know if anybody else arrives or leaves the ranch. I’m going with the tactical teams. Give the pilots the location of Nance’s place and tell the men to load up. I’m on my way down.”

Stansfield hung up and looked at Kennedy. “I want you to stay here and coordinate. If

Scarlatti calls, give her the number for my mobile phone and have her call me directly.”

“Are you going out to Nance’s?”

“Yes. I’m going to handle this thing personally.” Stansfield exited his office and told his bodyguard to grab the mobile phone and follow him.

Stansfield slid his access card into the slot for the executive elevator and watched as his bodyguard strapped a black nylon pack around his waist that contained the director’s secure mobile phone.

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There was a knock on the door and all three men turned their attention from the body on the floor to the entrance of the room. The voice of Nance’s assistant called out from behind the oak door. “Sir, the President is on the line and would like to speak to you.”

Nance scowled at the door. “Tell him I’m not available and that I’ll call him back.” The assistant cleared his throat. “He was rather insistent that he speak with you immediately

…. In fact he seemed a bit irate.”

Nance pointed at O’Rourke, who was still passed out on the floor.

“Jarod, keep him quiet. I’ll be right back.” As Nance started for the door, Garret followed. Nance stopped abruptly. “Wait here, Stu. I can handle this on my own.” Nance left the room and went to his private study. He pushed the blinking light on the phone and said, “I’m sorry to keep you waiting, Jim. What is it that you wanted?” The President screamed into the phone, “What in the hell are you up to now?”

“Jim, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t pull this crap with me, Mike. Where in the hell is Congressman O’Rourke?”

“Why would I know where Congressman O’Rourke is?”

“Someone has taken him, and it’s no shock that you’re at the top of the list for potential kidnappers.”

“Who told you he was taken?”

“Stansfield!” Nance was quiet for a moment. “As I have maintained since this morning, I think Thomas Stansfield is behind this entire affair. I have -” “Shut up, Mike!”

yelled the President. “I can’t believe you’ve gotten me into this mess. I saw the way Stu fell apart when he heard that tape.

You’re not going to get away with blaming this thing on anybody but yourself. You and your sadistic friend Arthur were behind this whole thing, and I’m not going to get dragged down with you. A reporter called Stansfield and told him if O’Rourke isn’t turned over in an hour, they’re going to release the tape of Arthur. Now wake up before it’s too late, and tell me where in the hell Congressman O’Rourke is.”

“I have no idea.”

“Bullshit… you’re a goddamned professional liar, Mike. Hand him over before you ruin all of us.”

“All of us is right, Jim.” Nance’s words were laced with blatant disrespect. “If that tape is released, all of us are going down, and that includes you. We’re all in this together, and we’re going to do it my way. You stall Stansfield. If they want the good

Congressman back so bad, he must know something. When I’m done with him, I’ll turn

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him over.” Nance slammed the phone down and left for the other end of the house.

DIRECTOR STANSFIELD AND HIS BODYGUARD WALKED out the REAR EXIT

of the main building at Langley and toward the waiting helicopters. The chopper to the right was a modified Sikorsky UH-60 Black Hawk with state-of-the-art noise-suppression equipment mounted over its powerful engines. The dark bird could fly at speeds up to eighty miles an hour and be no louder than a car. The Black Hawk was loaded with eight fully armed SOGS, members of the CIA’s Special Operations Group. They were dressed in black Nomex jumpsuits and black tactical assault vests. The majority of the men were former Recon Marines and Army Airborne Rangers.

Each man also wore a dull black Delta Force helmet and body armor made of spectra, a bulletproof composite. The helmets weighed only three pounds and were capable of stopping up to a .357 magnum round at close distance. Mounted on top of the helmets were pop-down night-vision goggles. All eight men carried silenced 9x19mm Heckler &

Koch MPO5 machine guns. Two of the eight also carried Remington short-barreled shotguns with special Shok-Lok rounds for blasting through hinges and door locks. If the shotguns weren’t enough, they also carried shaped plastic explosives for blasting through reinforced doors. One man also carried a Remington custom sniper rifle. The chopper that Stansfield approached was blue and silver with the word MEDEVAC painted in white letters over both sliding doors. This helicopter contained the eight members of the second tactical team. They were armed identically to the team in the Black Hawk minus the black Nomex jumpsuits and Delta Force helmets. This group was dressed in plainclothes. Four of them wore suits and trench coats, two were in jeans and leather jackets, and the seventh and eighth were a man and woman set up to look like a husband and wife.

All eight carried their weapons concealed in large Velcro pockets on the inside of their .jackets. The director climbed into the front seat next to the pilot, and his bodyguard got in back with the troops.

Stansfield nodded to the pilot, and the helicopter lifted off the ground and headed east with the dark Black Hawk close behind. The men and one woman in the back of the medevac chopper shot each other sideways looks. It wasn’t often that the director came along for something like this. Stansfield looked to his right as the two helicopters raced over the northern part of downtown at close to 150 mph. His bodyguard tapped him on the shoulder and handed his boss the phone. “It’s the President.” Stansfield grabbed the receiver and covered his other ear. Even though the helicopter was insulated for noise, it was still loud. “Yes, sir.”

“Thomas, I’ve lost control of him” The President sounded desperate.

“Who, sir?”

“Mike Nance. I just spoke with him. He said if the assassins want O’Rourke back so bad, the Congressman must know something.”

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“Is he at his ranch?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll handle it from here.” Stansfield handed the phone back to his bodyguard and stared straight ahead toward a dark Maryland countryside.

His nerves were flayed, he was tired, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this angry. It was time to put Mike Nance in his place.

Coleman, with the FBI in tow, continued his weaving pattern through the rundown

Langdon neighborhood of Washington, D.C. Although Langdon was less than a mile from the Capitol, it was one of the worst neighborhoods in Washington. Row after row of burnt-out and abandoned houses dominated the landscape, making perfect offices for the gang-banger crack dealers who ruled the streets. Coleman wondered what his FBI

watchers were thinking as they followed him into this war zone.

The former SEAL activated the voice modulator on his scramble phone and punched in the number for Langley. The operator connected him to Stansfield’s office after a brief argument. Kennedy answered the director’s phone and, upon hearing the altered voice, started an immediate trace. “Who is this?” asked Kennedy. “The person who took Arthur.

Where is Stansfield?”

“He’s not in right now.” Kennedy looked down at the phone and wondered if it was the former SEAL team commander on the other end. “I need to speak with him immediately!” Kennedy looked at her watch. “If you’ll hold for a minute, I’ll see if I can track him down.”

“No!” screamed Coleman. “Give me a number where I can reach him immediately, or

I release the tape.” Kennedy considered her options for a second and decided to give him the number. When she was done, she hit the extension for the operations center. Charlie

Dobbs answered and Kennedy asked, “Did you get a trace?”

“Not even close. Whoever it was, they were using a mobile unit.”

“Can you get him if he calls back?”

“If he stays on long enough, but I doubt he’s that dumb.”

“All right, thanks.” Kennedy placed the phone down and again wondered if it was

Coleman. Cross town, Coleman hit the disconnect button and dialed the number Kennedy had just given him. Someone answered on the other end, and Coleman asked for

Stansfield. A moment later the director was on the line and Coleman asked, “Where in the hell is O’Rourke?”

“Who is this?”

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Stansfield was put on guard by the metallic voice. “The person who has twenty copies of a tape that will close the doors to the CIA for good.

I’m only going to ask this question one more time. Where is Congressman

O’Rourke?”

“I’m in the process of trying to find him right now.” Coleman could tell by the quality of the connection that Stansfield was mobile.

“Where are you?” Stansfield hesitated briefly. “I’m airborne.”

“Where are you headed?”

“Maryland.”

“What’s in Maryland?” Coleman took a right on South Dakota Avenue and headed for

Highway 50. “The President’s national security adviser.”

“Does he have the Congressman?”

“We’re not sure, but I’m going to find out.”

“Where does Nance live?”

“Arundel County, just off of 214.” Coleman knew the area. Nance’s house wasn’t far from Annapolis. “You’d better hope you find the Congressman quick.

Nance has worn my patience thin.” Coleman disconnected the call and floored the accelerator as he turned onto the on ramp for Highway 50 east. He wanted to be there for the exchange of Michael, but there was one big problem-he had to lose the FBI first. In his sixteen years in the Navy, Coleman had learned two fundamental theories about shaking surveillance. The first is to enter an area of high traffic and lose the watchers in the crowd, and the second is to go to a place where they can’t follow. Coleman grinned.

The second theory would work perfectly.

He swerved into the left lane and passed several cars as he accelerated over 70 mph.

He disengaged the voice modulator switch on the phone and dialed the main number for the Naval Academy. When the operator answered, Coleman asked for his old friend Sam

Jarvi. Skip McMahon peered out the front window of the minivan with a pair of binoculars.

He could see the red brake light at the top of Coleman’s Ford Explorer.

The other three tail cars followed behind the minivan in a single column.

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McMahon set the binoculars on his lap and sat back. He raised his walkie-talkie to his mouth and said, “All right, gang, let’s stay loose.

The chopper has him. We’ll stay about a mile back for now, and we’ll leapfrog every five minutes. If he gets off the highway, we’ll move in and close the gap.” O’Rourke’s eyes blinked several times and then opened completely. Jarod grabbed him under the arms and hoisted him off the floor. He dragged Michael over to a wooden chair and deposited him in it. Michael grabbed on to the armrests and steadied himself.

The young Congressman shook his head and tried to bring his eyes into focus.

He noticed a burning sensation on his stomach and reached down to touch it. The area felt as if the skin had been torn away. Several drops of blood fell from his nose onto his jeans. O’Rourke again used the sleeve of his sweatshirt to wipe at his nose. He tilted his head back in an effort to stop the flow of blood. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Stu

Garret standing behind the bar. Michael looked over at him and asked, “How long do you think it will be before they hunt you down and kill you?” Garret ignored him, so

O’Rourke asked the question with a little more volume. “Hey… Garret! How long do you think it will take those assassins to track you down and blow your head off?.”

Michael grinned at the President’s chief of staff. “You had one chance, and you blew it.” Garret looked up from his drink. “I don’t think you’re in much of a position to be telling me anything.”

“Oh, is that right? Those assassins are going to release the tape all because you and your insane friend couldn’t call it quits and walk away.

You’re finished, Garret.

Any way you slice it, you’re dead meat.” Garret grabbed his drink and walked to the far end of the room where he wouldn’t have to listen to O’Rourke. Nance entered and strode across the room. He stopped ten feet away from O’Rourke and said expressionlessly, “I see you’ve regained consciousness.” O’Rourke asked, “What did the

President want?”

“It seems your friends want you back rather badly.” O’Rourke frowned.

“What friends are you talking about?”

“Your assassin friends.”

“You’re nuts. I don’t know who the assassins are.”

“Well, we’re going to find out for sure. I think you’re lying, and at this point I really don’t have much to lose, now do I?” Nance smiled.

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“How about your life, you sick bastard!”

“Congressman, you are a simpleton. Do you think I’ve worked my whole life to get where I am so a bunch of amateurs could end my career with a simple blackmail scheme?”

“Amateurs!” O’Rourke laughed. “You’ve seen what they can do.”

O’Rourke leaned back and shouted to the other side of the room, “Hey, Garret? How do you think they’re gonna kill you?

Do you think they’ll sneak into your house some night and snap your neck like they did to Fitzgerald, or do you think they’ll get you with a rifle shot from three blocks away like they did to Basset?” Garret slammed his drink down on an end table and marched across the room.

“Mike, this is stupid! What are we doing? Let’s just turn him over right now and resign.”

“Shut up, Stu! Pour yourself another drink and sit down.” O’Rourke craned his neck around and smiled. “Maybe they’ll do it with a car bomb.” Garret snapped at O’Rourke, “Shut up!” And then looked back at Nance. “Mike, this has gone too far. I’m out. I’m calling Jim, and I’m telling him this is your deal.” Garret went for the door, and Nance blocked him. Without taking his eyes off Garret, Nance said, “Jarod, if Mr. Garret tries to leave, shoot him!” Michael laughed loudly. “You are nuts, Nance! Don’t listen to him, Stu! He doesn’t have the balls to kill you. Arthur had all the balls. Mike here was just a yes-man. Weren’t ya, Mike? If you’re such a powerful man, Mike, why don’t you kill him yourself’? You don’t have the balls to do it, do you?” Nance screamed at Garret, “Sit down and let me handle this!”

Turning back to O’Rourke, Nance yelled, “Amateur hour is over! You can either tell me what you know right now and walk away with your brain intact, or I can pump you full of drugs and who knows what you’ll be left with.” O’Rourke spit more blood on

Nance and screamed, “Go screw yourself. You’re gonna end up dead, just like your buddy

Arthur.”

Nance looked at Jarod, snapped his fingers, and then pointed at O’Rourke. “Hit him again.” Jarod took several steps forward, but this time he made the mistake of getting within striking distance of Michael. As Jarod extended the Tazer, Michael’s right foot kicked upward just as the stun gun was fired. The electric dart imbedded itself in

Michael’s stomach at the same time his foot caught Jarod in the groin. Both men shook as electricity shot through O’Rourke’s body and into Jarod’s.

THE PILOT IN THE LEAD HELICOPTER LOOKED AT THE DISPLAY ON HIS

global-positioning monitor and announced that they were five miles out from their target.

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On his mark, both he and the pilot of the Black Hawk turned off their running lights and donned their night-vision goggles. In conjunction they slowed their airspeed and dropped down to an elevation of one hundred feet. The terrain was rolling countryside with sporadic patches of trees. Both pilots scanned their path for power lines. As they neared Nance’s property, the helicopters slowed to a hover and moved in behind a patch of trees located at the base of two small hills. Straight ahead, less than a mile away, was

Nance’s rambler.

The helicopters were positioned directly to the north of Nance’s house.

The pilot of the medevac chopper spoke into his headset. “Delta Six, this is Cherokee

One. Why don’t you slip around to the south and see what you can pick up on thermal?”

“Roger that, Cherokee One.” With that reply the Black Hawk slid out of formation and started a slow traverse of the property line.

Director Stansfield had put on a headset and was listening to the pilots talk. The pilot of the medevac reached up and adjusted a knob on his night-vision goggles. He scanned the area around Nance’s house and picked up a heat signature. “I’ve got a rover,”

announced the pilot.

“Check, make that two rovers. They’re patrolling the area around the house.” Rover was the designation the team used for a guard dog. The leader of the tactical team, who was sitting right behind the pilot, asked, “Do they have handlers, or are they on their own?”

“They’re on their own,” responded the pilot. He then glanced over at Stansfield.

“Sir, do you want me to check and see if I can pick anything up on the directional mikes?”

“No. He has an electromagnetic field around the house. Our mikes can’t penetrate it.

Delta Six,” asked Stansfield, “see if you can get us a body count on the inside of the house.”

“Roger that.

Give me another thirty seconds to get into position.” The Black Hawk slipped behind another hill and lined itself up with a patch of trees that was about five hundred yards from Nance’s house. The chopper moved forward at about thirty miles an hour. The wind was coming out of the east and would help carry their noise away from the house. When they reached the clump of trees, the pilot brought the chopper up just enough so the nose of the helicopter had a straight shot at the full length of Nance’s house. The copilot of the

Black Hawk manipulated a small joystick on the dashboard and moved the camera in the nose pod of the helicopter. A small, ten-inch screen relayed a thermal image of the house.

The copilot started at the southern end and worked his way to the north. The camera read

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the variations in temperature as it went. Halfway down the house, the copilot called out his first body.

A bright red orb appeared near the front door. When he made it to the northern wing, he called out four more bodies. Stansfield asked, “How are the four bodies arranged?”

The director had been in the house before and knew which room they were talking about.

“One appears to be sitting, two others are standing close by, and the fourth is sitting down about fifteen feet away from the other three.” The tactical team leader in the back tapped

Stansfield on the shoulder. “We’re going to have to take out those dogs before we hit the house.” Stansfield nodded his approval and the team leader told the pilot, “Bring us in behind that hill three hundred yards up on the left and I’ll deploy my sniper.” The nose of the blue-and-silver chopper dipped slightly, passed over the treetops, and then dropped down to a mere fifty feet from the ground as it worked its way up the small valley. The pilot slipped the helicopter in sideways behind the hill and brought the chopper to within three feet of the ground. In the back of the helicopter, the team leader pointed at one of the men wearing jeans and a leather jacket and said, “Tony, take up position on top of this hill and get ready to take out the rovers.” The man nodded and rose to get out. One of the other team members opened the sliding door, and the man jumped to the ground and disappeared into the darkness. Stansfield adjusted his mouth mike and asked, “Delta Six, how do things look in your area?”

“Everything is clear with the exception of the dogs,” crackled the pilot’s voice. “All right, we’re coming over to join you.” The pilot of the medevac turned the chopper 180

degrees on a dime and worked his way back to their original position. From there they continued south toward Delta Six’s position. As they neared, Stansfield pointed at a patch of trees that were fifty yards to the north and another two hundred yards away from the house. The pilot brought the chopper in behind the trees and announced, “Delta Six, we’re about six hundred feet back at seven o’clock. Do you copy, over?” The pilot of the Black

Hawk craned his neck around and spotted the heat signature of the medevac’s engines. “I

copy.

I’ve got your position marked, over.”

Stansfield looked through a pair of night-vision binoculars. He concentrated on the large wing to the north. Lights were on, but the shades were drawn. “Delta Six, did you say you marked four signatures in the room at the far north end of the house?”

“That’s affirmative, sir.”

“All right,” announced Stansfield. “Everybody pay attention. I am going to make one phone call to the occupants of the house. I am not going to announce our presence. I

repeat, I am not going to announce our presence. Depending on how the call goes, I will either give you the green light, or we will stand down. If I give the green light, this is how it’s going to go. When I tell Delta Six to move, I want the dogs taken out. Delta Six will then move into a hover position just above the north end of the house. Team One will then fast-rope to the ground and enter the house. The estate has pressure pads and motion

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and tremor sensors. The second you hit the ground, you are going to have to move fast.

The best point for entry will be the French doors at the southern end of the north wing. I

repeat, the southern end of the north wing. I have used the doors before, and they are operational. “We have a potential hostage situation, so your rules of engagement are as follows.

If you are fired on, you may return fire. If any of the men in the room attempts to kill one of the other men in the room, you are to prevent that from happening. Are there any questions?” No one had any. The two teams were well versed in what they were about to do.

“Team Two will back up Team One. Team One, are you ready to move?”

The leader of Team One replied, “Give us thirty seconds, sir.” The team commander banged his fists together ant then pointed his thumbs at the doors. The long, dark doors of the Black Hawk were yanked open and into the locked position. Each man secured his rappelling rope to special hooks located above the door and kneeled at the ready position.

The two men who carried the shotguns were the first men on each side.

They were the entry men, and their job was to get the doors open. The entry man on the left tapped his partner on the shoulder and then stabbed himself in the chest with a finger. He then pointed up and then straight ahead, signaling that he would blow the top and middle locks on the French doors. His partner nodded and signaled that he would take out the bottom lock. The next three men in line were in charge of clearing the room.

They entered the room, literally on top of’ each other, with each man taking a third of the room and sweeping it for hostiles. The sixth and seventh men covered the left and right flank of the landing area, and the eighth man covered their “six,” or their “ass” as the men referred to it. The team leader looked at each of his men, and one by one they flashed him a thumbs-up. The leader radioed back to Stansfield that they were ready.

Stansfield pulled his headset off his left ear and dialed Nance’s number. After several rings, Nance’s assistant answered.

“Hello.”

“Mike Nance, please.”

“I’m sorry he’s not in right now. May I take a message?”

“No. Tell him Director Stansfield is on the line, and I need to speak with him immediately.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t recognize your voice. Mr. Nance isn’t in right now, but I

will pass a message on to him if you would like.”

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Stansfield stared through the darkness at the house not more than a thousand yards away. “I know he’s there. Go get him now!” The assistant on the other end cleared his throat and said, “Yes, sir.”

O’Rourke had taken the brunt of the most recent electric jolt, but Jarod did not come out of it unscathed. As soon as the electricity had faded from Jarod’s body, the mercenary delivered another gloved chop to the bridge of O’Rourke’s bleeding and broken nose.

Michael, having absorbed most of the electricity, was still incapacitated when the karate chop landed.

The pain that was delivered to O’Rourke’s already broken nose was unlike anything he had ever felt.

Wave after wave of nausea and agony washed over him. O’Rourke began to wonder how much more of this he could take, but the thought of getting half of his brain fried from some truth serum was motivation enough to push on. Michael sat up a little straighter in his chair and eyed Jarod, who looked more than a little uncomfortable himself. O’Rourke attributed his pained expression to the kick in the groin. Michael spit some blood on the floor and looked up at Jarod. “How do your nuts feel?” Jarod took a step forward and raised his fist. Michael kicked his legs in an effort to keep his torturer at bay. Mike Nance yelled, “Enough! He’s only trying to postpone the inevitable.” Nance put a hand on Jarod’s shoulder and told him to relax. “Now, Congressman, let’s get down to business.

What is your association with the people who are trying to blackmail Mr. Garret and myself?”

“Nothing. I got up this morning and a package was on my front step. I don’t know who in the hell is behind any of this. All I know is that you and your sick dead friend had

Senator Olson and Congressman Turnquist killed!” Nance shook his head. “I don’t believe you. I don’t think these assassins just picked you out of the blue. I think you know who they are.” Nance looked at Michael for a response.

“Don’t you?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Fine, I guess we’ll have to use the drugs.” Nance walked over to a steel gun safe in the corner and dialed the combination. “If you aren’t going to cooperate, we’ll have to help you.” Nance pulled down on the lever and opened the heavy door. An array of shotguns and rifles occupied the bottom two-thirds of the safe, and on a shelf near the top was a tray.

Nance pulled the tray out and set it on the bar. Michael could see two clear vials and a syringe. Nance picked up one of the vials and held it out for Michael to see. “You would be amazed what kind of things people will say when you pump just the smallest amount

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of this into them. No secret is safe. The only problem is you never know what it will do to their brain. Some people come out of it a vegetable, some people have massive memory loss, and others go through the rest of their life suffering from severe migraines.

Some doctors claim they can administer the drug without leaving any permanent damage, but I’m not an experienced doctor.” Nance smiled. “Now which is it going to be, Congressman? Would you like to tell me what you know on your own, or would you like me to help you?” Nance picked up the syringe and waved it in the air. Michael was about to tell Nance where to stick the syringe when there was a knock on the door. Nance turned around and asked, “What is it now?” A muffled voice from the other side replied, “Director Stansfield is on the line. He wishes to speak with you.” Nance yelled at the closed door, “I told you I did not want to be interrupted!” The timid voice responded, “He said that he knows you’re here. He wants to speak with you immediately.” Nance angrily stomped to the door and opened it only a foot. “Tell him I’m busy and that I’ll call him back in ten minutes.” With that Nance slammed the door. Nance’s assistant walked across the large foyer, punched a blinking red light, and picked up the handset. “Director

Stansfield, Mr. Nance says he will call you back in ten minutes. Is there a number where he can reach you?” Stansfield looked over the dark countryside at Nance’s house and tightly squeezed the handset of his phone. Instead of replying to the man’s request for a phone number, he simply hung up and pulled his headset over both ears.

Wasting no time, he asked, “Delta Six, are you ready?” The reply came back a positive, and Stansfield turned to look at the leader of the second team. The man gave him a thumbs-up. Stansfield adjusted his mouth mike and said, “Delta Six, commence the operation.” Team Two’s sniper squeezed the butt of his rifle a little tighter and centered his crosshairs on the head of the rottweiler closest to the helicopters.

The two dogs were roaming the area due west of the house about a hundred yards out.

The sniper squeezed the trigger and the rifle recoiled slightly. The bullet hit the dog dead in the ear and sent it to the ground. The second rottweiler snapped its head around to see what the noise was, but before he could investigate, a bullet smashed into its large, block head. Five seconds later the ominous dark helicopter passed over the dead canines and toward the house. All eight members of the tactical team were standing and leaning out the doors of the chopper.

Their grip on the rappelling ropes was the only thing keeping them from falling to the ground. Their weapons were slung in the frontal ready position. Just before reaching the house, the tail of the helicopter dipped like that of a bird coming in for a landing, and the four large rotor blades braked the machine into a midair stop. The helicopter leveled out ten feet away from the house and twenty feet above the roof.

The team leader yelled, “Go! Go! Go!” In unison, all eight men kicked away from their airborne platform and loosened the grip of their black leather gloves on the ropes.

They dropped forty feet in the blink of an eye and squeezed the ropes again at the last second, breaking their descent. Landing like cats, they yanked the extra few feet of rope from their assault harnesses and grabbed their weapons.

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The Black Hawk cleared the area while floodlights sprang to life all around the team.

They ignored the lights and went to work. The two entry men were on the door two seconds after hitting the ground. The man on the left blasted away the top of the door, and the man on the right started at the bottom. The Shok-Lok rounds thudded into the wood, splintering the locks from the frame. With the locks taken care of, the entry men stepped to the side to make way for the room clearers. The point man stepped forward with a flash-bang grenade in one hand and his MP-5 in the other.

He kicked in the door from the center and rolled the grenade into the house. “Flash—

bang away!” rang out through all of their headsets, and every man closed his eyes. The deafening bang sounded, and a bright flash of phosphoric light lit up the area. The three room clearers flooded through the blown doorway, their thick, black silencers sweeping from right to left while they screamed, “Hands up! Hands up!”

Nance had been waving the syringe in front of O’Rourke’s face and giving him one last chance to answer the questions without the aid of drugs when the commotion started.

Jarod, who was standing next to Nance, had just enough time to react. He stepped backward and dropped to one knee behind a chair and an end table. As he was drawing his gun, he saw the flash grenade roll across the floor. Knowing what it was, he ducked behind the back of the leather chair and kept his gun trained on the door. As soon as the grenade exploded he began squeezing off rounds. His first shot hit nothing, but the second shot glanced off the side of the lead man’s helmet and hit the next man in the shoulder. The lead man saw the flash of the pistol and let go a five-round burst at Jarod’s head. All five shots were on the mark and sent Jarod’s semi-decapitated body to the floor with a thud. The smoking MP-5 snapped up from firing on Jarod and instantly found

Nance and O’Rourke. “Down on the floor! Right now!” The man repeatedly Screamed the phrase at the top of his lungs as the tip of his barrel closed to within ten feet of the two men. His partners were at his side training their weapons at the other two sectors of the room.

The second man, who had been hit in the shoulder, ignored the pain and followed through with his assignment. Four of the other five men ran into the room and began checking behind furniture and closet doors.

One man remained outside for cover while the rest of the team worked.

They continued their sweep with amazing speed and precision. After just twenty seconds, every man had called “Clear.” The team leader instructed four of the men to check the rest of the house and informed Stansfield that the room was secure. The second helicopter came in and landed on the front lawn. Stansfield got out of the chopper, and his bodyguard followed. The director stepped over the broken glass and splintered wood.

His eyes immediately fell on the bloody O’Rourke.

The always composed director of the CIA fought with all his might to control his anger toward Mike Nance. He took several steps forward and looked at the dead man on

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the floor. The marks left by the bullet holes made recognition impossible. Next his eyes fell on the young Congressman’s bound wrists. “Cut him free,” Stansfield directed the nearest man. The man slung his shotgun over his shoulder and cut O’Rourke’s wrists loose with a knife. The team leader approached Stansfield. “Sir, one of my men took a hit to the arm, but he should be all right.”

“Thank you. Please take your men outside and leave us alone for a moment.” The black-clad commandos exited the room, but Stansfield’s bodyguard remained, his Uzi drawn and ready. Stansfield walked over to the bar and examined the two vials of clear liquid and the syringe. “I can’t believe the mess you’ve created.” Stansfield tossed the syringe back onto the tray. “What were you going to do, drug him?” Nance ignored the question. Garret rose from the couch and approached.

“Thomas, I told him this was a crazy idea. I pleaded with him, but he ignored me.”

Stansfield pointed toward the shattered door. “Go wait outside. I’ll talk to you later.”

Garret looked at Nance meekly and left.

Stansfield looked at O’Rourke. “Are you all right, Congressman?”

Michael stood and wiped some more blood from his nose. “I’ll survive.”

Pulling a handkerchief’ from his pocket, Stansfield handed it to O’Rourke and looked back at Nance. “What in the hell were you thinking?” Nance ignored the question and walked over to a humidor that was sitting in the middle of a large oak coffee table.

Stansfield’s bodyguard aimed his machine gun at Nance’s head and took a step forward. The national security adviser looked up and frowned.

“Thomas, call off your dog.” Stansfield replied, “Carl, if he makes a wrong move, kill him.” Nance ignored the statement, retrieved a cigar from the box, snipped off the end, and lit it. He blew several clouds of smoke in the air and smiled. “Thomas, you would have done the same thing if you were in my shoes.”

“I would have never gotten into your shoes.”

“Maybe, maybe not.”

“Do you want to even attempt to explain this?” Nance shrugged his shoulders. “No. I

can see when I’m beat. I’ll announce my resignation in the morning.”

“It might not be that simple.”

Stansfield looked at his watch. “Why not?” asked Nance in between puffs.

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Nance’s cocksure attitude was infuriating. With sarcasm Stansfield replied, “Oh, I

don’t know, Mike. Perhaps your kidnapping of Congressman O’Rourke may have changed things a bit.” Coleman stopped his truck at the main gate of the Naval Academy.

A U.S. Marine stepped out of the guard booth and approached the car. Coleman rolled down the window and said, “Good evening, Corporal. I’m here to see Sam Jarvi.”

The Marine held out his hand and asked, “Identification, please?”

Coleman handed over his driver’s license. The Marine studied it briefly and then handed it back. “Sam just called, Mr. Coleman. Do you know where to find him?”

“Yes.” The Marine stepped away from the car and motioned for Coleman to proceed.

“Have a nice evening, sir.”

“Thank you. You, too.” Coleman drove onto the campus and grinned, thinking of the surprise the feds were in for. Two blocks back, Skip McMahon had pulled over. The other three cars were waiting several blocks back. He watched Coleman pass through the gate and then got the bad news over his walkie-talkie. “What do you mean you can’t follow him?” he yelled over the radio. The pilot of the helicopter elaborated, “It’s restricted airspace.”

“Damn it.

Can’t you call someone and get clearance?” The pilot had come across this problem before and knew it was not an easy obstacle to overcome.

“I could try, but it will take a lot of time and they’re going to ask more questions than you’re gonna want to answer.”

“Can’t you just tell them it’s official FBI business?”

“It doesn’t matter. The military is rather particular about people flying over their land.

Even us. If you want clearance, the best way to get it is to work from the top down. If I

call the local tower, they’re gonna want to know why, and then they’ll have to go to the top to get approval. They have to go through the chain of command and that takes time.”

“Damn it.” McMahon tapped the rubber antenna against the side of his head. His orders were to keep as tight of a lid as possible on their surveillance. Calling the local tower might set off too many bells.

It would be better if he called headquarters and worked it from that angle.

Maybe Roach could call some admiral and quietly get them clearance.

McMahon pressed the talk button.

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“Cars two, three, and four, let’s find out how many exits this place has and take up positions. In the meantime, I’ll see if I can get the chopper some clearance.” McMahon set his radio on the dash and reached for his digital phone. Coleman zigzagged his way through the old campus.

He parked underneath a large oak tree near the administration building and dialed

Stansfield’s number. Someone else answered and told him to wait. Stansfield was on the phone in short order, and Coleman asked, “Did you find the Congressman?”

“Yes.”

“Is he all right?” Stansfield looked at O’Rourke. “He’s a little roughed up, but other than that he’s fine.” Coleman breathed a huge sigh of relief. “Are you at Nance’s house?”

“Yes.”

“I think it’s time we had a meeting.” Stansfield was caught off guard by the proposal.

He turned his back to the rest of the group. “In person?”

“Yes. You, Nance, and Congressman O’Rourke.” Coleman paused.

Stansfield’s apprehension was obvious. “You have nothing to worry about, sir. There are some things we need to discuss, and I would like to see with my own eyes that the

Congressman is safe.”

“And if I decline?”

“The tape gets released.” After a long pause, Stansfield asked, “Why should I trust you?”

“Director, we have gone to great lengths to try and find a way out of this mess. My beef is not with you, it’s with Mr. Nance. Am I clear?”

Stansfield considered the last statement. “I think so. Where would you like to meet?”

“Do you still have your helicopter?”

“Yes.”

“Get on board with O’Rourke, Nance, and one pilot. If anyone else comes along, it’s off. Tell the pilot to fly to Dutchman Point and then head due east five miles out into the

Bay. I will call you in twenty minutes and tell you where to go from there.”

Coleman paused. “And, Director, I don’t want any surprises. We have Stinger missiles, and if I see another aircraft within a mile, I’ll have my men blow it out of the sky. Understood?”

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“Yes.” Coleman hung up and pulled away from the curb. He had made up the part about the Stingers, but Stansfield didn’t know that. Coleman was on his own with no backup, but if his gut feeling was right, Stansfield could be trusted. The Naval Academy had its own private harbor located at the east end of the campus. Coleman worked his way down the narrow streets and parked in a small lot adjacent to the harbor. Standing next to the plain gray harbormaster’s hut was his old friend and former Navy SEAL Sam

Jarvi.

Jarvi was the current dive master at the Academy. Coleman got out of the car with the scramble phone and metal trunk in hand and walked over to Jarvi. Jarvi tossed his cigarette on the ground and crushed it with his foot. The menacing little pit bull, as

Coleman used to call him, was no taller than five six. If one counted his bristly, short, gray hair he may have been five seven. Back when Coleman was trying to become a

SEAL, Jarvi was one of his instructors, or tormentors, depending on how you looked at it.

When Coleman went through BUDS, the twelve-week boot camp that the Navy uses to make sure only the toughest of the toughest become SEALS, Jarvi was there every step of the way screaming and yelling.

Jarvi stuck out his hand. “So you got some bad guys on your ass?”

“Yep.”

Coleman set both cases down and the two men hugged each other tightly.

Jarvi picked the larger Coleman off the ground, then set him back down.

“It’s good to see you, brother.”

“It’s good to see you, too.” Jarvi motioned toward the selection of boats in the harbor.

“You need a little transportation?”

“Yeah, if you can spare one.”

“Anything for a buddy. I already cleared it with the harbormaster.

He’s an old crusty frog. He said as long as it’s going to a SEAL, it’s okay.”

A large smile broke across Jarvi’s face. Coleman tried to return the smile, but failed.

Jarvi picked up on his old friend’s unease and asked, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, just some business I have to take care of.” Jarvi went from jovial to no—

nonsense in a second. “Do you need some help?” Coleman shook his head. “No, but thanks. I’m running solo on this one.”

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Jarvi showed his displeasure with a furrowed brow. SEALS didn’t like to hear other

SEALS use the word solo. They were trained and conditioned to do everything in pairs and teams. The solo concept was foreign to them.

“Scott, you say the word, and I’m in.”

“Thanks, Sam, but this is something I have to do on my own.” Coleman slapped

Jarvi’s shoulder.

“I’ll be all right.” Jarvi nodded solemnly. “I won’t keep you waiting.

Follow me.” Bending over, Jarvi picked up the heavy trunk. “Shit, what in the hell do you have in this thing?”

“Tools.” Coleman grinned. “I don’t wanna know, do I?”

“No.” Jarvi led the way down one of the docks.

“I gassed up a twenty-eight-foot Whaler. She’s got a one-hundred-fifty hp outboard on her, and she’s loaded with all the new navigational crap.” Jarvi waved a hand in the air.

“Global-positioning system, depth finder, the works. These little shits around here can’t find their ass without a computer and a satellite.” Coleman .jumped into the Whaler and grabbed the trunk from Jarvi. He primed the engine and fired up the motor. Jarvi untied the bow and aft lines and nudged the bow away from the dock with his foot. “If you break it, you buy it.”

“I’ll bring her back in one piece.” Coleman slipped the boat into gear and started to pull away. Over his shoulder he said, “Hey, Sam, if the FBI comes looking for me, tell them you never saw me.”

“Whatever you say, brother.” Jarvi gave his old friend a curt salute.

Coleman stood behind the small center console of the Whaler and pushed the throttle to the stops. The whine of the outboard matched the increase in speed. The small white boat kicked up a foamy wake as it sped out of the harbor and toward the expansive

Chesapeake. When Coleman cleared Greenbury Point, he headed southeast across the channel. There was a slight chop on the water, but as the wind died down, the bay would get smoother. Once he reached the other side of the channel, he called Stansfield and gave him the final location of the meeting place. Coleman had picked a small sandbar just outside of the channel that appeared during low tide. He pulled the throttle back as he neared the hump of sand. The sandbar was crowned in the middle and at its widest point was fifty feet across. The strip ran north-south with the current of the channel. He brought the Whaler in on the north end and beached her.

Coleman knew the Chesapeake as well as one could expect for such a large and shapely expanse of water. When he ran SEAL Team Six, they had spent countless hours

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training in and around the bay during every possible weather condition both day and night. Coleman opened the metal trunk and grabbed a flashlight and black tactical hood.

He studied the hood for a moment and decided that for theatrical reasons it would be needed. He pulled the hood over his head and adjusted it so a one-inch slit was around his eyes. Next he grabbed his 9mm Glock and stuck the gun in the back of his pants. He leaned against the center fiberglass console and waited.

Several minutes later he heard the familiar sound of a helicopter chopping its way through the air. Not long after that he spotted its blinking running lights. Coleman turned on the flashlight and pointed it in the direction of the helicopter. He waved it back and forth several times, then pointed the light at the crest of the sandbar. The helicopter looped around to the south and came in for a landing without the assistance of its powerful floodlight. Sand was whipped into the air as the spinning rotors displaced the air beneath. Coleman shielded his eyes but did not turn his back. The retractable landing gear extended into the locked position and touched down softly on the sand.

The whine of the turbine engines slowed immediately and with it the speed of the blades. The fury of flying sand died, and the calm, quiet night returned. Coleman stepped out of the boat and his foot splashed into several inches of water. He stayed next to the boat and eyed the helicopter. From his vantage point, the only person he could see was the pilot. One of the side doors opened and three men stepped down onto the sandbar.

Coleman recognized all of them. Shoving the flashlight into one of his pockets, he moved forward to meet them. His boots sloshed through the water for his first several steps until he made it onto the drier portion of the tiny island. The four men stopped several strides away from one another. Nance stood in the middle, and O’Rourke and Stansfield stood on either side. Coleman looked at his friend’s battered face and said, “Michael, I apologize for getting you involved in this.” The former SEAL hesitated before proceeding with the next part of his plan.

It was a gamble, but if he had gauged Stansfield’s character correctly, one that should work. Coleman pulled off the black hood and addressed Director Stansfield. “Sir, I am

Scott Coleman, United States Navy retired. Congressman O’Rourke knew nothing about what was going on until this morning. The recent political assassinations were conducted by myself and a network of men that shall remain unknown. Congressman O’Rourke was brought in after my people interrogated Mr. Higgins and found out that he and this idiot here”-Coleman pointed at Nance—“were behind the killing of Senator Olson and

Congressman Turnquist.

“Congressman O’Rourke was a close friend of my deceased brother. We needed someone we could trust, so I contacted Michael this morning and gave him Arthur’s confession along with a list of our demands. I failed to foresee the possibility that Mr.

Nance would try something so desperate.” Coleman looked from Stansfield to O’Rourke.

“Michael, I can’t apologize enough for pulling you into this.” Michael stood in silence, completely dumbfounded that Coleman had revealed his identity.

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Coleman paused for a moment and then glared at Nance. Through clenched teeth he asked, “You just couldn’t walk away, could you?” Nance shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Mr. Coleman, the issue of America’s national security is my responsibility, and one that I have always taken very seriously. When someone blackmails the President, they are threatening the national security of this country.

Did you honestly expect me to do nothing?” Coleman frowned. “Wait a minute. I

think you’ve left something out. How does killing Senator Olson and Congressman

Turnquist fit into your idealistic and noble protection of America’s national security?”

“In hindsight that may not have been the best decision, but we felt we had to do something to slow you down. Your actions were very destabilizing to our political system and-” Coleman interrupted, “In hindsight? You are so full of shit. Don’t insult me with your blabbering. You didn’t kill Olson and Turnquist to protect America’s national security. You killed them for your own perverted, selfish interests.” Nance shrugged his shoulders. “And you didn’t kill Senator Fitzgerald and the others for your own selfish interests?”

Coleman stepped back and crossed his arms. He studied the reptile in front of him for a moment. “I killed those other men because they were a prime example of what is wrong with our political system. Year after year they promised to do the right thing, but in the end, all they were concerned about was winning and holding on to power. They were running this country into the ground. They were, in your language, ‘a direct threat to the national security of this country.”” Coleman hesitated for a second. “For most of my adult life I’ve been flying all over this damn planet killing people that were a threat to our national security. I finally realized that assholes like you”-Coleman reached out and jabbed his finger into Nance’s sternum”and all of your egomaniac political friends were doing more damage to America than any of the terrorists and dictators you’d sent me to kill. Politicians like Fitzgerald and Basset spent all their time dividing our country.

They pitted the right against the left, the wealthy against the poor, and they didn’t believe half of what they said.” Coleman jabbed his finger a little harder this time. “I put my ass on the line for jerk-offs like you. I’ve seen my men get killed because people like

Fitzgerald didn’t know how to keep their mouth shut. You sit in the White House and it’s all one big fucking game. You decide you want someone killed, you pick up the phone, make a call, and twenty-four hours later the person is dead. Have you ever been in the field? Have you ever killed anyone? Have you ever seen eight of your closest friends blown out of the sky because some drunk Senator doesn’t know how to keep his mouth shut?” Coleman stared at Nance and waited for an answer he knew he’d never get. “Of course you haven’t.

You’ve walked around your whole life with a silver spoon shoved up your ass! Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t blow your fucking head off.” Nance took a half a step backward and held his chin high. “I can see when I’m beat. I will agree to your

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demands and quietly withdraw from public life.” Coleman scoffed, “Do you think I trust you?”

“Mr. Coleman, I understand your animosity towards people like myself and Director

Stansfield. I don’t agree with it, but I understand it.”

“Wait a second.” Coleman held his hand up. “Leave him out of this.

You created this cluster-fuck by yourself, now it’s time to stand alone and pay the piper.” Nance continued in his confident tone, “As I was saying, I don’t expect you to like what I do, but nonetheless, I have served our country well. I have made my fair share of mistakes over the years, but they have been honest ones. I think I deserve the chance to retire and live out the rest of my life in peace.”

“Like Arthur. I know your type, you can’t just sit on the sidelines.

You will continue to meddle. You’ll try to find out who else is in my group, and if you have the chance, you will kill me without hesitation.” Nance remained aloof. “This country needs people like me whether you like it or not. I’m sorry you disagree with me, but that’s the way it is, and the way it will always be. I give you my word that I will walk away from everything.”

“Your arrogance alone is enough to make me want to kill you!” Coleman reached for his gun and pulled it out. “First of all, you deserve to die, and second of all, I don’t trust you as far as I could kick you.”

Coleman extended his arm. Nance stared down the barrel of the gun and looked to

Stansfield.

“Thomas, you are going to have a very hard time explaining my death.”

Coleman took his eyes off Nance and looked at the director of the CIA.

Stansfield replied, “If you could kill him in the same manner that you killed Senator

Fitzgerald, it would make things much easier.” It took a second for the comment to register, and then Coleman replied, “My pleasure.” The former SEAL put the gun back in his pants and stepped toward Nance. Nance turned to try and run, but O’Rourke reached out and grabbed him by the back of his shirt collar. Like a rag doll, O’Rourke swung

Nance back around and presented him to Coleman. Nance’s cool demeanor had for once vanished. With a pleading voice and a panicked face he screamed, “Thomas, you will never get away with this!

You can’t do this, Thomas!” Coleman delivered a quick punch to Nance’s solar plexus, ending any further conversation. The national security adviser instantly buckled over and gasped for air. Coleman grabbed Nance by the hair and pulled him down and into the sand. The muscular killer dropped down with all of his weight, sending his knee

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into the center of Nance’s spine. His hands reached for the underside of the chin, and in a quick burst of strength he yanked up and then twisted Nance’s head to the side. A loud crack broke the still night and echoed off the water.

Coleman held his tight grip for several moments, then let the lifeless head drop to the moist sand.

SUNDAY MORNING dawned. AND The SUN WAS PEEKING THROUGH the clouds.

The limousine and its two security cars slid into the V.I.P underground parking garage at Washington’s National Airport and pulled into a row of open spaces reserved for Senators and Congressman. Three men got out of the last car and proceeded into the terminal. Two of them were carrying large attache cases. Irene Kennedy paused and looked down at the file sitting in her lap. She had been up the entire evening researching the relationship between Congressman Michael O’Rourke and Scott Coleman. Skip

McMahon, Director Roach, and Director Stansfield were listening intently as she wrapped up her briefing. “Everything seems to check out.” Kennedy tapped her pen on her file. “The only thing that bothers me is whether or not Coleman knew that Senator

Fitzgerald was the one who blew Operation Snatch Back.

Besides the counterespionage people at the Bureau, and a select few at Langley, the list of people is very short. At the top of that short list is, or I should say was, Senator

Olson. At the time all of this took place, Congressman O’Rourke was transitioning off of

Olson’s staff and getting ready to start his first year as a representative. If Coleman discovered who leaked his mission and caused the deaths of his men, it would explain his motive. If I had to guess, I would bet that Congressman O’Rourke was the one who told him about Fitzgerald.”

“Do we have any proof?.” asked Roach. Kennedy shook her head. “Only an educated guess.”

“So where do we go from here?” asked Roach. “We make sure none of this ever goes public.” Stansfield looked at Skip. “I’m going to want to debrief Coleman. In order to do that we’ll have to arrange for your surveillance team to lose him for a day or so.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem.

He already shook us once.” There was a tap on the window of the limousine and

Stansfield rolled it down halfway. One of his bodyguards leaned forward and said, “Sir, the tower is holding the flight. The Congressman and Scarlatti are waiting at the gate, and we’ve secured and swept the room.”

“Thank you, Alex.” Stansfield rolled up the window.

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“Irene and Skip, would you please escort Congressman O’Rourke and Ms. Scarlatti to the room. Brian and I will meet you there.” All four of them got out of the car, and

Kennedy and McMahon went into the terminal first. As they approached the gate, Skip saw O’Rourke and Scarlatti sitting next to each other waiting for their flight. McMahon stepped forward and extended his hand. “Good morning, Congressman O’Rourke.”

Michael closed his paper and stood. Reaching out, he grabbed McMahon’s hand.

“Good morning.” McMahon turned and motioned to Irene. “Do you remember Dr.

Kennedy from yesterday?”

“Of course.” Michael and Irene shook hands, and then Michael turned to Liz.

“Darling, I’d like you to meet Special Agent McMahon from the FBI and Dr. Kennedy from, ah…”

Kennedy smiled and offered her hand to Liz. “The CIA. It’s nice to meet you.”

McMahon studied Michael’s nose and winced. “I’m sorry to hear about your, ah…”

McMahon tapped his own nose. “It looks pretty bad.”

“As long as I don’t touch it, it’s fine.” McMahon nodded and after a brief silence said, “Director Stansfield and Director Roach would like to talk to both of you for a couple of minutes.” Michael looked at his watch and replied, “We really don’t have any time right now, our flight is supposed to leave any minute.”

“Don’t worry,” McMahon said. “It won’t leave without you. Director Roach asked the tower to hold it for a little while.” Michael looked uncomfortably at Liz and then said, “All right. Let’s go.” McMahon and Kennedy walked on each side of Michael and Liz as they led them to a discreet lounge that was reserved for Congressman and Senators. The bodyguard at the door stepped to the side and let them in. Roach and Stansfield were sitting in the corner of the windowless room with a small coffee table in front of them. In the middle of the table was a mobile jamming unit. If anyone was trying to eavesdrop on their conversation, the only thing they would pick up would be static. The two directors rose to greet Michael and Liz. Michael introduced Liz to the two directors, and then everyone took a chair.

Roach said, “I apologize for holding your flight, but there are some things we need to discuss.”

“Considering the circumstances, I understand,” replied O’Rourke.

“Good.”

Roach nodded and then looked over at Stansfield. “Thomas, why don’t you take it from here.” Stansfield crossed his legs and asked, “Congressman O’Rourke, how many people have you told about the events of the last several days?” Michael thought for a moment and replied, “My brother Tim, my grandfather, and Liz.”

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“That’s it?” Stansfield studied the Congressman as O’Rourke nodded yes.

Stansfield wanted to be very thorough on this point, so he restated the question.

“Those three people that you mentioned are the only people that you discussed this matter with?” Michael looked into Stansfield’s dark eyes and answered the question again.

“Yes.” Stansfield folded his hands underneath his chin and asked, “Can we trust your brother and your grandfather to stay quiet about it?”

“They understand how serious the situation is.” Stansfield turned his attention to Liz.

“Ms. Scarlatti, have you told anyone about what happened last night?” Liz sat upright.

“No.”

“Do you plan on telling anyone about what happened?”

“No.”

Stansfield responded with a doubtful look. “Sir,” replied Liz, “I have no desire to see

Michael dragged into the limelight over this, and despite my misgivings about not going public with this story, I concede that it would probably do more harm than good. As long as you leave us alone, I will stay silent about this entire affair.” Stansfield studied

Michael and Liz for a minute and then said, “I’ll take your word.”

Stansfield stuck out his hand and Michael shook it first followed by Liz. “When you return from the funeral, I would like to talk to both of you and your grandfather and brother.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem,” replied Michael. “Good.” Stansfield hesitated for a second. “I would also like to talk to Commander Coleman.”

“I’m sure he would be more than willing to agree to that. When I get back from

Minnesota, I’ll arrange it.”

“Thank you.” Kennedy sat forward. “Congressman, I have one question.

Are you familiar with a covert mission by the code name of Operation Snatch Back?”

Michael did not answer the question. He looked at the other four people one by one and tried to decide the best way to handle it.

Stansfield broke the ice. “We need to know for security reasons and nothing else.

There are certain counterespionage operations that have stemmed from Snatch Back.”

Michael could feel his palms moisten. “I knew about Operation Snatch Back… after the fact that is.”

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“Did you find out from Senator Olson?” asked Kennedy. “Yes.” Kennedy nodded, let the tension mount for several seconds, and then asked, “Did you know Senator Fitzgerald was the person who leaked the mission?”

Michael nodded. Kennedy looked at her boss and then leaned forward.

“Did you pass that information on to Commander Coleman?” Michael looked at the ground for a second, and then with confidence he looked Kennedy in the eyes. “Yes, I

did.” The room was completely silent for ten full seconds while everyone thought about the events that had been set in motion because of a leaked mission that had taken place almost a year prior. No one needed to ask Michael why he had told Coleman.

They had read his file and knew that he was a Marine. Soldiers weren’t the only people who held animosity toward politicians-spies and law enforcement officers did, too. Stansfield said, “Thank you for your honesty.” Liz turned to Roach and asked, “What’s going to happen to Garret?” The director of the FBI crossed his legs. “He is going to disappear from public life, and we’re going to keep a very close eye on him.”

“What about the President?” Both directors shrugged their shoulders and then

Stansfield said, “That is one of the things I would like to talk to Commander Coleman about.” Michael wondered what type of leverage Stansfield and Coleman would be able to exert on the President. Michael looked at the four people sitting around him and then at Liz. “If that’s all the questions you have, we should probably get going.” Nobody said anything so Michael and Liz stood. The other four attendees stood and Kennedy said, “Congressman O’Rourke, I have one last question.” Kennedy clutched her purse. “Did you have any idea, when this whole thing started, that Commander Coleman was involved?”

“I had my suspicions.”

Michael grabbed Liz’s arm. “If that’s all, we should be going.”

Director Stansfield nodded and said, “Thank you for your time. Call me when you get back in town.” Michael and Liz left the room. As they walked through the busy terminal, he felt at ease for the first time in weeks. Things could finally get back to normal. As they approached the gate area, they noticed a group of people staring up at a TV. Liz led the way to the TV, and when they stopped, Michael placed his hands on her shoulders. The words “News Flash” appeared in yellow across the bottom of the screen. A reporter from

CNN was standing in front of the Bethesda Naval Hospital giving a live report. “Hospital administrators and White House officials have just announced that National Security

Adviser Mike Nance was killed this morning when he was thrown from a horse at his rural Maryland ranch. He was med-evacked to the trauma unit here at Bethesda and was pronounced dead on arrival at approximately eleven-thirty A.M. The unofficial cause of death has been listed as a broken neck. Those are all the details we have for now.

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Again, National Security Adviser Mike Nance …” As the reporter continued talking, Liz looked up at Michael and shook her head. “I can’t believe this. How did they fake—”

Michael put his finger over Liz’s lips and pulled her away from the group. He led her back toward the gate and looked over his shoulder at the people staring intently at the

TV. O’Rourke kissed the top of her head and said, “Remember, we know nothing.”