Term Limits

chapter Thirteen
Lortch again paused and looked at the President, letting the tension mount. He was going to play this hand for everything it was worth.

"My agents tore apart everything that was within sight of the South Lawn. One of them found a transponder attached to the live-signal feed underneath the control panel of the ABC News van. While arranging security for this trip, I suggested that the media be banned from the South Lawn while the helicopters were coming and going. I thought this precaution was appropriate considering the fact that four politicians  have been assassinated in the last week. This request was ignored because it was deemed too important of a news event to have a media blackout, so the media was allowed to tape the entire event.

Several members of your staff even wanted to let the media carry the event live. I told them that was out of the question, and we reached a compromise that allowed the media to tape your departure and then show it later. "Just before the first helicopter landed, my agents shut down the live feeds on all the news vans and made them go to tape. At some point after that, the assassins activated a transponder that they'd planted underneath the ABC News van's control board. Once this was turned on, they were able to watch everything that happened on the South Lawn in real time. These assassins know where our weaknesses are, and they know that our ability to protect you is directly related to your desire to be protected. They obviously understand the relationship between a politician and the media, and if you continue to make yourself accessible to the media and the public, we will not be able to protect you." The President looked at his chief protector and said, "Jack, do whatever you need to make things more secure, and I'll listen to you."

Roach, noticing that the President was in an unusually decisive and agreeable mood, decided to make his move. "Mr. President, our investigation has hit a wall. We believe these assassins are former United States commandos. Special Agent McMahon and his people have received very little cooperation from the Special Forces people at the Pentagon. They are stonewalling us at every turn." The President's head jerked from Roach to Nance. "Mike, what's the problem?"

"Well, sir, there are certain national security issues involved here.

Most of these personnel files are either top secret or contain top secret information about covert missions." The President cut Nance off for the first time in their professional relationship. "I don't want to hear about problems. I want to see some results." Stevens turned his head away from Nance and back to Roach. "I will have an executive order ready by tomorrow morning giving Special Agent McMahon permission to review any personnel file he wishes. We are done dragging our feet on this. I want these people caught!" Nance looked at the President from the other end of the table and bit his lip. Stevens was too emotional right now, he would have to wait until later to discuss this issue.

There was no way in the world someone without top secret clearance was going to get carte blanche on those files. Especially someone from the FBI. While Nance tried to think of a way around this new problem, Lortch briefed the participants on the evidence they'd found under the bridge such as the radar dishes, and what efforts were being made to track the serial numbers. As the briefing continued, it dawned on Nance that Garret was unusually quiet. Nance attributed it to the threat the assassins had made on his life. Nance's mind moved from Garret to Stansfield. Why was Director Stansfield so quiet during the discussion of Special Forces personnel files? Surely it was in the CIA's best interest to keep those files away from the eyes of the FBI.

The meeting ended just after 8 P.M and everyone left the conference room except Garret and Nance.

When the door closed, Garret dropped his head into his hands and rubbed his eyes. "What a f*cking mess." Nance shifted in his chair and crossed his legs. He watched Garret and tried to guess what he was thinking.

Nance tilted his head back and asked, "Stu, you were awfully quiet during the briefing. Did that tape get to you?" Garret let his hands fall to the table and looked up with bloodshot eyes. "No . . . maybe a little . . . I don't know." Garret reached into his shirt pocket.

"God, I need a cigarette." He shoved one in his mouth and lit it.

After taking a deep drag he said, "They can't kill me if' I don't give them the chance. I won't leave the White House for a month. I'll take one of the guest bedrooms and move in." Garret took several more deep drags and frowned. "I'm not scared of these terrorists. I'm worried about something else. We've got another problem, and it's not good.

Lortch knows about the job we did on Frank Moore. He told me he knows who was involved, and if I don't back off and listen to him, he'll tell the FBI." Garret stood up and started pacing. "When it rains, it pours. It's not like we don't already have enough problems, and now we've got this to deal with." Nance watched Garret intently and kept his outward composure. "Did he mention my name?" without looking at Nance, Garret paused and said, "Yes."

"Did he mention any other names?"

"Yes."

"Whose?" Garret looked at Nance briefly and then looked at a painting on the wall. "He mentioned Arthur's." Nance felt a sharp pain shoot through his temples. "He mentioned Arthur?" Garret reluctantly nodded his head.

"I have no idea how he found out. I didn't talk to anyone about it."

Nance's demeanor remained placid, but inside he was boiling. Without having to think very hard he knew exactly how Lortch had found out. He or one of his people must have overheard Stu talking to God-knows-who about their little blackmail operation. "Arthur will not be happy about this.

I'm sure he will want to talk to you at length. Clear your schedule for tomorrow evening. He wants to talk to us about something else, and it can't wait. I'll arrange for some discreet transportation."

THE MOON WAS SHOWING ONLY A SLIVER OF light AS IT sat SUSPENDED above the tall pines.

The four-door Crown Victoria approached the main gate of Camp David, and the two occupants in the backseat ducked down. The electric gate slid open, and the sedan accelerated past a mob of reporters kept at bay by a squad of Marines with M16s cradled across their chests. The pack of reporters and cameramen pushed each other to try and get a glimpse of who was in the car. The sedan continued down the road and around the first turn, where it slowed. Two identical Crown Victorias pulled off the shoulder and took up positions in front of and behind the car carrying the national security adviser and the President's chief of staff. Saturday's budget summit at Camp David had been a mixed success.

Garret had come up with some accounting gimmicks that would make the budget deficit look smaller than it really was. This would enable the political leadership to say they had cut some spending, without actually making the tough choices. Their hope was that it would pacify the assassins and give the FBI some time to catch the killers. Mike Nance's doubts regarding the stability of the new coalition were already proving true. Senator Olson had balked on the deal, telling the President he would have no part in misleading the American people.

Olson argued that real cuts had to be made, or he was out. The silver-haired Senator from Minnesota told the President he would stay quiet for one week, and if Garret was still playing his accounting games, he would expose the new budget cuts for what they were-a sham.

Nance and Garret spent most of the fifty-minute drive talking in hushed whispers. The Maryland country roads they traveled on were dark, and traffic was light. When they reached Arthur's estate, the lead and trailing sedans pulled off to the side, and the one carrying Nance and Garret approached the large wrought-iron gate. Two powerful floodlights illuminated the entrance to the estate. A large man dressed in a tactical jumpsuit and carrying an Uzi stepped out of the guardhouse and approached the sedan. A flashlight was taped to the underside of the machine gun's barrel, and the guard turned it on. He pointed it toward the back window and shone the light on Nance and Garret. After identifying both men, he told the driver to pop the trunk.

Walking to the rear of the car, he checked the trunk and then walked back to the guardhouse. Arthur was sitting behind the desk in  his study watching the scene at the front gate. Embedded in the wall to the left of his desk were four security monitors and two large color TVS. Arthur watched the guard go back into the small booth, and a moment later the gate opened. The gate closed as soon as the car passed through. Looking at another monitor, Arthur watched the car snake its way up the drive and stop in front of the house, where it was met by two more guards, one of whom had a German shepherd at his side.

Garret and Nance stepped out of the car and stood still while the dog sniffed them and a handheld metal detector was waved over their bodies.

Finally, the door was opened from the inside, and a third guard led them down the hall to Arthur's study. Arthur pressed a button on the underside of his desk, and an old framed map of the world slid down and covered the monitors. Rising from behind the desk, he walked over to the fireplace and placed one hand on the mantel. Even though Arthur was over seventy, he still had a rigid and upright frame. His silver hair was neatly combed straight back and stopped an inch above the white collar of his dress shirt. His fingernails were well manicured, and his expensive, worsted-wool suit hung perfectly from his slender frame. The door opened and Nance and Garret entered. Arthur kept his arm on the mantel and waited for his guests to approach.

Mike Nance stopped about ten feet away and in a formal tone said, "Stu Garret, I would like to introduce you to Arthur." Garret stepped forward and extended his damp, clammy hand. "It's great to finally meet you. I've been looking forward to this for a while." Arthur nodded his head slightly. "The pleasure is all mine." Then, motioning toward several chairs, he said, "Please, let's sit. Would either of you like anything?" Nance eased his way over to Arthur's side. "Before we get started, I would like to go over a couple of things with you in private." Arthur grasped the point and turned to his other guest.

"Mr. Garret, do you like to smoke cigars?" Garret was caught off guard for a moment. "Ah... ah... yes, I Walking over to the coffee table, Arthur picked up a cherry wood humidor and lifted the lid.

Garret grabbed one of the cigars and smelled it. Arthur handed him a cigar guillotine, and Garret snipped off the end. "I'll show you to the door." Arthur led Garret across the room toward a pair of French doors.

"The view of the Chesapeake is beautiful from the veranda. I think you will enjoy it." Arthur opened one of the doors. "We'll be out to join you in a minute." Closing the door behind his guest, Arthur turned and walked back to Nance. "What is the problem?"

"It seems that our involvement in the blackmailing of Congressman Moore is known by someone outside the original group."

"And who would that be?"

"Jack Lortch, he's the special agent in-"

"I know who he is. How did he find out?" Nance glanced toward the veranda and then told Arthur about the confrontation between Garret and Lortch. When he was done, Arthur asked, "And how do you think Mr. Lortch found out?"

"I think that Mr. Garret wasn't as careful as he should have been."

"I would concur." Arthur was not an animated person, but Nance had expected him to display some type of reaction. Instead he got nothing.

"What do you want to do about Lortch?" asked Nance.

Arthur paused for a minute and pondered the question. "For now, nothing. I read his personality profile about four years ago; he's not the type to go to the press. Besides, the Secret Service is not in the business of embarrassing the President. In the meantime, tell Mr. Garret to back off, and I'll prepare a contingency plan to deal with Mr. Lortch if he presses the point."

"I've already told Garret to back off, and he's obliged."

"Have you told him anything about my proposition?"

"No, I only said that you wanted to talk to us. As far as he knows, I'm in the dark."

"Good."

"Are you still going to tell him?"

"Yes."

"I'm not sure that's a good idea. You've always told me not to trust amateurs."

"I've always told you to trust no one." Turning and walking across the room, Arthur looked up at the stacks of books that covered an entire wall of the study and sighed. Nance obediently followed him, saying nothing, just walking quietly two steps behind his mentor. "Mr. Garret has his faults, but he is a highly driven man who will do anything to succeed. He was loose-lipped about the Congressman Moore thing because he didn't see the risks inherent in not keeping his mouth shut. Thanks to Mr. Lortch, he has learned his lesson. Besides, with someone like Mr. Garret, his ability to keep a secret is directly related to the seriousness of the issue. The more he stands to lose, the more apt he will be to stay quiet. If we up the ante, Mr. Garret will stay quiet."

"I see your line of logic, but are you sure we need him?"

"Yes, there are some concessions I'm going to want for helping him."

Nance nodded his head. "As you wish."

"Let's join our friend." Before going outside, Arthur picked up the humidor and offered a cigar to Nance and then took one for himself.

The two then walked toward the French doors and out into the dark fall night. Garret was standing at the edge of the veranda nervously waiting to be called back inside. He knew Nance was telling Arthur about the problem with Lortch, and he was worried about how Arthur would react. He had heard some scary stories regarding the former black-operations director for the CIA. Arthur Higgins had directed some of the Agency's most secret operations for almost thirty years before being forced out.

The official reason given for his departure was his age and the fall of the Iron Curtain. But the whispers in the intelligence community were that he couldn't be controlled-that he had decided one too many times to run his own operation, independent of executive and congressional approval. Garret turned when he heard the dress shoes of Nance and Arthur on the brick patio. "How do you like the view?" asked Arthur.

During the five minutes that Garret had been outside, he hadn't even noticed the great dark expanse of the Chesapeake that was before him.

He glanced over his shoulder to look at it and said, "It sure is a lot bigger than I thought." Arthur smiled inwardly, knowing that Garret was not the type to appreciate the majesty of nature. He was such a simple, uncomplicated man. Not dumb, just one-dimensional and focused.

He was easy to predict, which suited Arthur's needs perfectly. Arthur looked at Garret with his calm and confident face and in his smooth voice said, "Mr. Garret, I think I may be able to help you."

MCMAHON THOUGHT THAT, AFTER THE MEETING WITH THE PRESIDENT on Friday night, he would be spending all weekend with a team of agents poring over Special Forces personnel files. The President's promise of complete cooperation was short-lived. Saturday and Sunday had passed without a single file being reviewed. Someone had managed to change the President's mind, and McMahon had a good idea who it was.

Late Sunday, McMahon received word through the Joint Chiefs that he was to show up at the Pentagon on Monday morning at 7 A.M. sharp. He was told he could bring two people to assist him in the reviewing of a select group of files. Just how select these files were, McMahon could only wonder. One thing was certain though, his patience was running thin. As McMahon walked down a long, stark hall, located somewhere in the basement of the Pentagon, he wondered if this would be a waste of his time or if they were finally done jerking him around. He had decided to bring Kennedy and Jennings with him, and the three of them obediently followed the Army lieutenant who was escorting them to the Pentagon's offices for the Joint Special Operations Command, or JSOC, pronounced "jaysock." The actual field headquarters was located at Pope Air Force Base in North Carolina. They had already passed through three security checkpoints by the time they reached their destination.

At the door to JSOC they were asked for their identification by a Marine sitting behind bulletproof Plexiglas. After verifying their IDS, the Marine pressed a button and the outer door opened. The Army lieutenant led the three visitors into a comfortable and functional reception area, where he told them to take a seat. Several minutes later a one-star general emerged with a cup of coffee in his left hand.

The man had short, bristly, black hair and was about five ten. The dark green shoulder boards holding his general's star jutted straight out from his neck. He was a poster board U.S. Marine, from his square jaw to his perfectly pressed pants and spit-shined shoes. McMahon couldn't help but notice that the general's shoulders were almost twice as broad as his waist. Most of the generals that McMahon knew showed a little more in the area of girth than this one. The general stuck out his right hand. "Special Agent McMahon, General Heaney. Nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you, General." McMahon winced slightly as the bones in his hand were squeezed tightly together by the pit bull standing before him.

"This must be Dr. Kennedy and Special Agent Jennings." Jennings and Kennedy shook Heaney's hand.

McMahon flexed his hand in an effort to shake the sting from the general's handshake. "Would any of you like some coffee before we get started?" McMahon and Kennedy said yes, and the general led them down the hall to a small kitchen. He grabbed a pot of coffee and said, "You may want to add some water to this. I make my coffee a little on the thick side." McMahon took a sip and agreed. "Special Agent Jennings, can I get you a soda or something?"

"Do you have any diet Coke?"

"I keep a private stash in my office. Hold on, I'll be right back."

"Sir, please don't bother. Water will be fine."

"It's no bother at all." The general disappeared down the hallway. A moment later, the general came around the corner with two cans of diet Coke. "I brought an extra one just in case you're really thirsty."

Jennings extended her hands. "Thank you, sir. You didn't have to go to all that trouble."

"No trouble at all.

Come on, let's go down the hall. I want to introduce you to someone."

They all left the room and walked down several doors. The general stopped and ushered them into a state-of-the-art conference room. Each spot at the table was equipped with a phone, a retractable keyboard, and a computer monitor mounted underneath the surface of the conference table. "This is where we'll be spending most of our time. Please, make yourselves comfortable. I'll be back in a minute." When the general returned several minutes later, he was carrying a stack of files and was accompanied by a senior female naval officer. "Everyone, this is Captain Mcfarland. She is our unit psychologist." Dr. Mcfarland introduced herself to everyone while General Heaney arranged the files into three stacks on the table. "We've got one more person joining us." The general pressed the intercom button in front of him and said, "Mike, would you please send Mr. Delapena in."

"Yes, sir." The general looked up from the phone and asked everyone to be seated. A moment later a man in a blue suit and striped tie entered the conference room and placed a briefcase on the floor next to his chair. The man was of average height and weight, with fair skin and a deeply receding hairline. The general introduced him only as Mr. Delapena. McMahon stared at him intently, trying to decipher what a nonmilitary person had to do with the Special Forces. "Mr. Delapena, you didn't say which agency you were affiliated with."

"I work for the National Security Agency."

"What does the NSA have to do with this case?"

"The NSA is involved in the safeguarding and dissemination of any information pertaining to the national security of the United States."

"So Mr. Nance sent you to keep an eye on things?"

Delapena looked at the general but did not respond to McMahon's question. After several moments of awkward silence the general clapped his hands together and said, "All right, let's get started." The general patted his hands on two of the three stacks he had sitting in front of him. "These are the personnel files of all black, retired Special Forces commandos between the age of twenty-four and thirty-four. They are arranged in stacks according to which organization they served under.

The stack on my left consists of former Green Berets, the stack in the middle is made up of Delta Force commandos, and the one on the end is Navy SEALS. There are one hundred and twenty-one African-Americans between the age of twenty-four and thirty-four that are retired Green Berets, thirty-four Delta Force commandos, and two Navy SEALS. "Before we go any further, I would ask that if you decide to contact any of these individuals you would allow us to accompany you?" The general looked to McMahon for the answer. "I don't see a problem with that."

The general nodded and then handed three files across the table.

McMahon opened the file and looked up and down the single sheet of paper. It contained a photograph stapled to the upper-right corner and a list of basic information including birth date, Social Security number, educational background, date of enlistment, and date of discharge.

McMahon flipped the page over and it was blank. Moving only his eyes, McMahon looked up at the general. "Where are the psychological profiles and performance reviews?" The general looked to Delapena and then McMahon. "At the direction of the Joint Chiefs and the NSA, they were pulled." McMahon tossed the file back across the table and said, "This does me absolutely no good. I need to establish a motive, and I can't do it with a photograph, a date of birth, and an educational summary. The President promised me that I would be given full cooperation." McMahon looked away from the general to Delapena. "Does the President know about this?"

"Mike Nance has briefed him thoroughly."

"I'll bet he has ....

Okay, if you guys want to do this the hard way, that's fine with me, because I'm done screwing around. We've got two dead Congressman, two dead Senators, and an attempt has been made on the President's life."

McMahon gritted his teeth and pointed across the table at Delapena.

"The biggest threat to national security right now is the people responsible for those murders. I could care less about some operation you guys ran in some jerkwater, third-world country ten years ago."

McMahon stood up and said to Kennedy and Jennings, "Come on, let's go."

Looking at Delapena he said, "If this is the way you want to do this, I'll be back tomorrow with a stack of subpoenas and fifty agents."

Kennedy and Jennings stood and started for the door. The general looked at Delapena, silently urging him to say something. As they reached the door, Delapena said, "No, you won't."

"What did you say?" McMahon asked as he turned around. "I don't think that would be a very good idea."

"Listen here, Mr. Delapena, let's get something straight. I work for the FBI, and you work for the NSA. This is a domestic investigation, and we have the jurisdiction, not you. The law is very clear on this, and considering the high profile of this case, I will have no problem finding a judge that will grant me a broad and sweeping subpoena."

"And I will have no problem finding a judge to block it. You see, Mr. McMahon, the laws regarding issues of national security are also very broad and sweeping."

McMahon walked back, leaned over, and placed both hands on the table.

He brought his face to within a foot of Delapena's and said, "You tell Mike Nance that if he tries to block my subpoena, I'll file an obstruction of justice charge against the NSA and hold the biggest press conference this town has ever seen. I'm sure the media would love to find out that the FBI believes these murders were committed by United States-trained military commandos. And I'm sure they'll find it even more interesting that NSA is trying to block our investigation."

McMahon backed up.

"Those cynical bastards will eat you alive."

"Mr. McMahon, if you breathe a word of this to the media, you'll be out of a job." McMahon felt his temper stirring and strained to keep it in check. "Come on, Delapena, you've got to do better than that.

You have absolutely no leverage on this." McMahon turned to the general. "All I have to do is hint at your lack of cooperation to the media and every Congressman and Senator will be over here demanding that you open your files. And not just the files I'm interested in, they'll want to see everything.

They'll threaten to cut every penny of funding from your budget, and then they'll set up a series of committees to investigate any wrongdoing. They'll be all over your case for the next two years."

The tension built as McMahon refused to back down. General Heaney sat with his hand over his brow wishing the whole problem would go away, and Delapena fidgeted with a pen he'd pulled out of his pocket. They both knew McMahon was right, but neither had the authority to do anything about it. People above them were calling the shots. Out of frustration, Delapena said, "Mr. McMahon, you go ahead and do what you have to do, but you don't have a shred of evidence that these murders were committed by military personnel. And don't forget, there will be a lot of Congressman and Senators that will be offended that you would imply such a thing." McMahon ignored Delapena and looked to the general. "Sir, have you seen the autopsy reports for Fitzgerald, Koslowski, Downs, and Basset? The general nodded his head yes. "Did you notice how Senator Fitzgerald was killed?"

"Yes."

"How many people do you know who are capable of breaking a man's neck with their bare hands?"

The general looked at McMahon and said, "Not very many."

"General, you know as well as I do that the people behind this are former U.S. commandos. Former commandos with an awfully big ax to grind, and the answer is somewhere in your psychological profiles and fitness reports."

The general looked to Delapena and then back at McMahon. "I agree with you, but unfortunately my hands are tied. You don't think I realize how bad it's going to look if the word leaks that a group of my former boys are doing this and we blocked your investigation?" The general made a tight fist and rapped his knuckles on the table. "The issue for us is not that we don't want to help you, it's that we have some real security concerns.

The Special Forces community is a very tight-lipped fraternity. We are not prone to sharing information with outsiders. Our success and survival is dependent on secrecy." The general pushed his chair back and stood, walking to the opposite end of the table. "The full package of each commando contains information regarding every mission he took part in, the other members of the mission, a mission summary, and a whole bevy of top secret information. There are very few people that have the clearance to look at the full personnel file of one of my boys. I can't just open those files to you. There's too much at stake."

"I see your point, General, but how do you expect me to conduct an investigation without that information?" Delapena addressed the question. "Mr. McMahon, I don't envy your job, but you have to understand the innate conflict of interest confronting our two agencies."

"I understand your concern over security, but..." McMahon opened his eyes wide and shook his head. "I think the apprehension of these killers is more important."

"It may be more important right now, but these security issues could have far-reaching implications."

"Farther reaching than the murders of United States Congressman and Senators? These guys aren't going to just quit and go home." Kennedy decided it was time for her to insert her gentle style into the conversation. "Skip, the general and Mr. Delapena are not just being paranoid about security. If I was in their position, I wouldn't want to open those files to the FBI." She turned her attention to the other two men. "On the other hand, Mr. Delapena and General Heaney, you must also understand the crisis that the FBI is faced with resolving."

Kennedy pulled her glasses off and twirled them in her right hand.

"What we should be trying to do is find a way to bridge both of our concerns."

Kennedy pointed her glasses at the general and Delapena. "The FBI needs your help to run a speedy investigation. No one knows your files better than you do, and I'm sure you can offer us great insight into which of your former members are most inclined to mount a revolution against their own government. On the other hand, if word got to the press that the NSA was blocking the FBI's investigation of former U.S. commandos, the damage to both the NSA and the Special Forces would be devastating.

"We need to work together, and I think I may have a  solution. My thought is that all of the people in this room could form a review panel. In trade for the full cooperation of the NSA and the Joint Special Operations Command, Special Agent McMahon and Special Agent Jennings should sign a national security nondisclosure document that would block them from investigating and litigating anything that is not directly related to these recent assassinations.

This way, we can abate your anxiety over having several dozen FBI agents rifling through your files, and at the same time the FBI can be guaranteed full cooperation from the people with the most insight into these young men's minds." Everyone thought about the new proposal, and then General Heaney pronounced, "I like the idea."

"I'm not completely sure," said Delapena. "I have no problem including you, Dr. Kennedy. Your security clearance is higher than anyone's in this room. If Special Agent McMahon was willing to sign a national security nondisclosure document, I could probably convince my superiors to sign off, but Special Agent Jennings is out of the question."

"Why?" asked McMahon.

"Special Agent Jennings has a long career ahead of her with the FBI, and over the next thirty years she will be transferred in and out of no less than three departments. During that time it will be very hard for her to ignore some of the things she may learn. I know my superiors would not accept her." Delapena said this as if Jennings weren't in the room.

McMahon looked at Kennedy and then at Delapena. "I'll agree to it, if I get full cooperation." Delapena nodded and looked at his watch.

"There are some people I need to get ahold of before they head into a meeting.

General, may I use your office?" The general said yes, and Delapena left the room. McMahon walked back around the table and took a seat.

"General, were you serious when you said you believed the men committing these assassinations are former commandos?"

The general cocked his head sideways and said, "I was serious, very serious ....

The men we recruit to become Special Forces COMMANDOS are a unique breed. Dr. Mcfarland, would you please give our guests the psychological profile of the average commando." The doctor started to speak with clinical neutrality.