Term Limits

chapter Fourteen
"The typical COMMANDO is a man with an above average to high IQ who is extremely fit. He is a man who on the surface seems hard, callous, and emotionally indifferent. In truth, he is an extremely emotional and compassionate person. He is often obsessed with winning. He hates to lose, but is rarely willing to cheat or lie to win. He holds himself to a very high standard of honor and integrity and despises people who lie and lack character. He would, without thought or hesitation, give his life to save the life of a fellow commando. His biggest fear is that he will have wasted his life by not pushing himself hard enough.

He despises people who live their lives unjustly. He dislikes politicians and bureaucrats and displays an open animosity towards them. He is trained to kill in a lethal and efficient manner and, over time, comes to accept it as a just and reasonable way to solve a problem. If you can convince him that a person is bad enough, he will pull the trigger with a clear conscience. Of course, there are exceptions to this, but for the most part this is the norm." General Heaney let his arm drop down on the table. "I have been involved in the Special Forces for over thirty years, and I couldn't begin to count how many times I've heard one of my fellow commandos say that they would love to kill this Congressman or that Senator. You see, we are not only taught how to kill, but for our own sanity, we are taught to look at killing as a justifiable action in a world where there are good and bad people, where the bad people are not supposed to win. "Think for a minute about what we ask a commando to do. We send them to do some very ugly things, and we tell them they are doing it to protect the United States of America. As commandos, we rationalize that we are ridding the world of a bad person, that we are protecting America.

What do you think would happen if one of these highly trained individuals realized that the politicians running his own country pose a bigger threat to the security of America's future than the religious extremist that he just flew halfway around the world to kill?" The general looked hard at McMahon. "If these men think the real threat facing America comes from within, that the real threat comes from, quote, 'a group of old men that are mortgaging the future of the country for their own selfish needs..."" The general let the words of the assassins hang in the air. "Mr. McMahon, I have very little doubt that the people behind this are United States-trained commandos."

MICHAEL AND SEAMUS O'Rourke WALKED INTO THE PLUSH RESTAURANT and were greeted by a slight man wearing a tuxedo. Both O'Rourkes were impeccably dressed in dark wool suits. The maitre d' looked up' along his thin nose and said, "May I help you?"

"Three for lunch please," said Michael. "Do you have a reservation?"

"Yes, I think it's under Olson." The maitre d' looked at his reservation book and clapped his hands together. "Oh, you must be Congressman O'Rourke. And you must be the Congressman's father."

"No, I'm his grandfather."

"Oh." The maitre d' looked down at the reservation book. "Senator Olson's secretary requested a private corner table." He grabbed three menus from under the podium. "if you will follow me, I'll show you to your table." It was eleven forty-five and the restaurant was almost empty. Busboys were shuffling back and forth preparing each table for the busy lunch crowd. The maitre d' glided between the tables, his chin held high, leading them to a circular table in the far corner.

Stepping aside, he held a chair out for the older of the two O'Rourkes.

Seamus sat down and the maitre d' pushed in the chair. The maitre d' stepped back, bowed, and said, "Enjoy." Seamus grabbed his napkin and asked, "What's the word on this budget summit that they had at Camp David?"

"They reported on the morning news that they cut one hundred billion dollars from Stevens's budget." Michael raised one of his eyebrows, showing what he thought of the reports. "I take it you don't believe they actually did it."

"They reported it as a rumor. That means one of two things: no one knows what actually happened, or it was leaked to test the waters."

"Which do you think it was?"

"I'm not sure." Michael looked toward the entrance of the restaurant.

Senator Olson had just entered with his bodyguards. "We'll find out soon enough. Erik is here." Senator Olson and four serious-looking men walked across the restaurant led by the maitre d'.

Michael and Seamus stood to meet their friend. Olson pushed his way by two of the guards and the maitre d', extending his hand toward the older of the two O'Rourkes. "Seamus, I didn't know you were in town.

When did you get in?"

"Friday morning." Olson shook his hand and then Michael's.

The maitre d' seated the four Secret Service agents at the next table.

Three of them sat with their backs to Olson and the O'Rourkes and one sat facing them. After sitting, Olson looked at Seamus and frowned.

"Knowing your disdain for Washington, I assume there must be something pretty important going on for you to come here." The statement was met with a slight grin. "Not really, I had some business to take care of, and I wanted an excuse to visit Michael and Tim."

"Is everything all right at the mill?" The O'Rourke Timber Company was the largest employer in Grand Rapids and thus a political concern for Olson. "The mill is doing fine, in spite of all the interference I'm getting from your friends over at the EPA, the Commerce Department, and the Department of the Interior." A waiter approached the table and greeted them. Olson was thankful for the distraction. He admired Seamus but was not always comfortable with his penchant for direct confrontation. He'd noticed recently that Michael, like his father before him, had inherited this honest, but not always pleasant, Irish attribute. The waiter asked if they would like anything to drink.

Erik and Seamus ordered iced tea and Michael ordered a Coke. Olson informed them that the Joint Intelligence Committee was to reconvene at 1 P.M and if it was all right with them, he'd like to order lunch while the waiter was there. The O'Rourkes agreed and they placed their orders. As soon as the waiter left, Seamus looked across the circular table and said, "Erik, I understand you were involved in the budget summit at Camp David this weekend." Olson looked down and brushed his hand across the white tablecloth as if he were cleaning crumbs away.

Looking up with shame in his eyes, he said, "Yes, I was there."

"How did it go?"

"I'd rather not say." Seamus gave him a tightly screwed frown as if he was offended. Olson shrugged his shoulders and said, "The President asked us to keep quiet about the details."

"They were saying on the morning news that you cut one hundred billion dollars from the budget. Is that true?" asked Michael in a doubtful tone. "You don't sound like you believe it," said Olson. "I don't think you can get the two parties together and cut one hundred billion dollars in two days." Olson looked blankly at Michael and then Seamus.

"You'd be amazed what people are capable of doing when they're backed into a corner." The disgust was openly visible on his face.

"Erik, what happened up there?" asked Seamus. "I promised the President I wouldn't talk about it." Michael leaned closer to Olson and looked him in the eye. "Erik, if you don't think you can trust us, this town has really gotten the best of you." Olson looked at Michael and then Seamus, thinking about the close friendship between their two families.

Michael's father had been Erik's best friend. The O'Rourkes were the most honest people he knew. When they gave their word, they meant it.

Olson fidgeted in his chair and leaned forward. Seamus and Michael did the same. "I'll tell you what happened, but you have to promise me you will tell no one." Seamus and Michael nodded yes. "That means no one.

Especially Liz, Michael."

"You have my word." Olson slowly recounted the weekend's events.

Michael and Seamus listened intently and stayed quiet.

Five minutes into Olson's account, lunch was served. The plates were pushed aside as Olson continued to recount the President and Garret's plan to mislead the public. Olson became more animated and angry as he explained in detail how they were going to actually spend more money and, through accounting gimmicks, say they were cutting the budget.

The same was true for the O'Rourkes. The more they heard, the more they strained to keep their mouths shut. When Olson was done, he sat back in his chair and took a large gulp of water. Seamus was the first to speak.

With his deep, weathered voice he said, "Those bastards all deserve to die." The severity of the comment almost caused Olson to spit his water back up. "You don't really mean that, do you?"

"You're damn right I do."

Olson looked to Michael, and Michael said nothing. "Seamus, don't you think that statement is a little harsh considering recent events?" The older of the O'Rourkes repeated his conviction. "Those corrupt bastards deserved to die, too."

"You can't be serious?"

"I'm very serious. They were running this country right into the ground, and I couldn't be happier now that they're dead."

"It doesn't scare you in the slightest that some group of terrorists has decided to circumvent the democratic process?"

"One man's terrorist is another man's freedom fighter."

"Did you learn that one from the IRA?" Olson regretted the shot before he'd finished making it. It was not a good idea to provoke Seamus.

Seamus sat like a rock, his eyes burrowing deeper and deeper into Olson's, his large fist clenched on top of the table. "I'll pretend I didn't hear that." Seamus O'Rourke was financially involved with the Irish Republican Army in the years following World War II. Seamus was born in Ireland and moved to the United States with his parents at a very young age. He believed strongly in Ireland's right to self-rule and thought Britain's conquest of Ireland was no different from their conquest of India or any of the other colonies. He supported the IRA's paramilitary efforts until they started setting off bombs and killing innocent people. That was too much. Fighting for independence like a disciplined soldier was one thing, fighting for it like a cheap thug was another.

Olson broke the silence. "You don't really think what these assassins have done is justifiable?"

"Not only do I think it's justifiable, I think it's necessary."

"I can't believe I'm hearing this. I mean, I know you don't like politicians, Seamus, but you can't really believe those men deserved to die."

"I do."

"Have you lost all faith in the democratic process, in the people's ability to effect change by voting?"

"The system has become too complicated and corrupt. Every single candidate lies to get elected and then sells his soul to the parasite special-interest groups who gave him the money to run his campaign.

The two-party system has made change impossible. No one's willing to face the real problems and do what's right."

"I acknowledge that things could be better, but we still have the best leadership and political system in the world." Seamus laughed out loud.

"That's debatable, and even if you're right, it won't be true for long."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Look at the numbers, Erik. We're going bankrupt, both morally and financially. We need some drastic changes, or the most powerful country in the world is going to go the way of Rome."

"And violence is the way to bring that change about?" Seamus rubbed his chin. "Maybe."

Olson shook his head sideways. "Violence is not the answer." The Senator looked out the window as if Seamus didn't deserve the courtesy of eye contact. "Violence is never the answer." Seamus's complexion reddened, and he slammed his fist down on the table. The silverware, plates, and glasses shook, and the Secret Service agents at the next table snapped their heads around. Seamus ignored them and leaned toward Olson. "Erik, I don't mind a healthy debate, but don't ever use a line of crap like that on me again. I'm not one of your naive college students, and I'm not some little sycophant political activist.

I've seen people killed, and I've killed people in the service of our country. Your idealistic, philosophical theories might fly in the hallowed halls of Congress, but they don't work in the real world.

Violence is a fact of life. There are people who are willing to use it to get what they want, and in order to stop them they need to be met  with violence. If it wasn't for war, or the threat of waging war, people like Adolf Hitler and Joseph Stalin would be running the world, and you would get shot for going around saying stupid things like 'violence only begets violence."" Olson was embarrassed. He was not used to being spoken to in such a manner. The oldest O'Rourke took words more seriously than most people, and Olson had forgotten that the art of debate, as it was practiced in Washington, did not work on men and women who had no time for political posturing.

Seamus O'Rourke was not a man to be patronized with political or philosophical slogans. Olson exhaled deeply and said, "Seamus, I apologize. The last couple of weeks have been very hard on me, and I'm not feeling very well." Seamus nodded his head, accepting the apology.

Olson sat back and rubbed his eyes. "This entire thing is wearing me down." Michael placed a hand on the Senator's shoulder. "Erik, are you all right?"

"Physically, yes. mentally, I'm not so sure." His hands dropped limply to his lap. "You're right about the debt, Michael. You've been harping on me about it for years, and deep down inside I always knew you were right. I just thought that when things got tough the two parties would put aside their differences and do what was right. Well, I was wrong.

Here we are in the midst of the biggest peacetime crisis we've seen since the Depression, and what do we do? We come up with some gimmick that's meant to deceive the American people and these damn assassins!"

Olson stopped and shook his finger. "And it's all the President's and that damn Stu Garret's fault! At the one time when we really need leadership, we have none. Those two self-centered idiots are running around taking opinion polls, if you can believe it!" Michael nodded.

"Oh, I can believe it. They only have one thing on their mind, Erik--how they're going to win the election next year."

"You are absolutely right, and I'm sick of it."

"What are you going to do about it?" asked Seamus. "I'm going to give the President a week to put together a new budget with some real cuts in it, and if he does, I will sign on."

"What will you do if he sends this current one to the House?" asked Michael. "I will expose it for what it is-a sham." Michael felt a wave of confidence rush over him. With Erik taking the lead on this, the President would be forced to make real cuts. The senior Senator looked down at his watch and said, "Damn! My committee meeting starts in five minutes." Olson looked up for their waiter, who was nowhere in sight.

Next he reached for his wallet and Seamus placed a hand on his arm, stopping him. "Don't worry, Erik. After what you've just told me, I'll be more than happy to take care of the bill." Olson stood and grinned.

Slapping Seamus on the back, he said, "You're a pain in the ass, Seamus, but I love you. You have a unique and refreshing way of putting things into context. We could use a couple more of you around here just to keep the rest of us on our toes." Michael shook Olson's hand and said, "Anything you need, call me." Olson nodded and left.

Michael and Seamus watched him leave and then Seamus paid the tab. As they walked out onto the sidewalk, the sun was just starting to peek out from behind the clouds. Michael had told Seamus of his meeting with Scott Coleman.

Seamus's only response was, "Stay out of the man's way. If he's behind it, we should all be grateful." Michael thought his grandfather was carrying it a little too far, but for the time being he agreed that it would be best to give Coleman room. If Coleman was behind the assassinations, which Michael had little doubt about at this point, then his fake missile attack on the President's helicopter was ingenious. He had sent a clear message that no one was out of his reach. Now if Erik could exert enough political pressure on the White House, everything would fall into place. They stopped at the first intersection and were waiting for the light to change when Michael turned and saw Senator Olson's limousine pull out of the underground parking garage a half block down the street. The large, dark car turned toward them, its powerful engine roaring as it pulled out into traffic. Michael watched as it approached, then the high-pitched whine of a motorcycle caught his attention. The sleek black bike broke away from the rest of the traffic and raced toward them. The driver and his passenger were both wearing dark helmets and black leather pants and jackets. The limo approached the intersection and stopped as the light turned red. The other pedestrians started to walk and then stopped as the high-pitched whine of the motorcycle's engine reverberated off the surrounding buildings.

Michael stuck his arm out in front of Seamus and focused on the motorcycle as it raced up the street. The dark bike and its riders darted in between the rows of cars that had stopped for the light and continued to accelerate. The bike approached the Senator's limousine, and then, suddenly, the man riding on the back leaned out and tossed a dark bag onto the roof of the limo. The bike continued on, skidding into a hard right turn and slicing through the lanes of traffic.

Michael looked at the bag and instinctively turned to shield Seamus.

The noise was deafening. The roof of the limo imploded, and the tinted windows blasted outward, propelled by bright orange and red flames.

The explosion rocked the entire block, throwing the O'Rourkes and the other pedestrians violently to the ground.

PRESIDENT STEVENS WAS PRESIDING OVER A CABINET MEETING WHEN JACK Lortch entered the room and walked up behind him. Lortch bent over and whispered into Stevens's ear. Without warning, Stevens slammed his fist down on the table and shouted an expletive. The President stood so quickly he almost knocked his chair over. Pointing at Mike Nance, who was sitting at the opposite end of the table, he yelled, "My office, right now!" On his way toward the door, he slapped Garret on the shoulder and said, "Come on, Stu, you too."

Stevens, Garret, Nance, and Lortch filed out of the room, leaving the wide-eyed cabinet members wondering what was going on. The distance between the Cabinet Room and the Oval Office was less than thirty feet.

Stevens was walking fast and shaking his head. When he reached the door to his office, he abruptly stopped and started back in the opposite direction. Lortch, Nance, and Garret stopped as Stevens pointed down the hall and said, "Let's do this in the Situation Room."

As he passed Mike Nance, he pointed at him and said, "Get Stansfield, Roach, and Tracy over here immediately." No one talked as they followed Stevens down the stairs to the basement. A posted agent opened the door to the Situation Room, and the President, Garret, Nance, and Lortch entered. Stevens picked up a remote that was sitting on top of the large conference table and pointed it at the far wall.

As the wood panel slid to the side revealing eight television sets, the President looked at the TVS and muttered, "This is unbelievable." Five of the eight TVS were broadcasting images of Olson's charred limo.

Garret looked at Mike Nance, but Nance ignored him. Garret then looked at Stevens and tried to get a read on his temperament. Garret attempted to ask a question, but before he could get more than two words out, Stevens said, "Quiet. I don't want to hear anyone say a word." They all watched the TVS in silence. About five minutes later, Secret Service director Tracy arrived, and he and Lortch retreated to the far corner to talk.

The President stepped even closer to the TVS and turned up the volume, drowning out the noise of the conversation behind him. Roach arrived a short while later, and Stansfield almost twenty minutes after the call had gone out. After several minutes of Stevens not acknowledging the arrival of the three directors, Garret walked up beside him and said, "Jim, everyone is here." Stevens walked to the head of the table and stood between the rest of the room and the TVS. Looking down the long table, he said, "Sit!" Everyone took a chair and Stevens began squeezing the back of his high leather chair.

With a look of utter frustration Stevens asked, "Can anyone tell me how in the hell a United States Senator gets killed in broad daylight less than a mile from the White House?" No one answered the question. The silence added to the frustration Stevens felt, and a rage started to press its way forward from the back of his head. In a crisp, stern voice Stevens said, "I've got some things to say, and I don't want to hear anyone speak until I'm done." Pausing for a moment, he put his hands on his hips and closed his eyes . "I want this killing to stop, and I want it to stop right now. I don't care what it takes. I don't care what laws have to be bent or broken. I want these bastards caught." Stevens opened his eyes and looked at Director Roach. "Does the FBI have any suspects?" Roach shifted in his chair uncomfortably.

"Mr. President, this investigation is not even two weeks old."

"Are you any closer to catching these people than you were a week and a half ago?" Roach looked back at Stevens but didn't answer. His silence was answer enough. "I didn't think so."

Stevens closed his eyes again, the frustration evident on his face.

Without looking up he snapped, "I'm done screwing around. We have to catch these bastards, and we have to do it quickly. I want the CIA and the National Security Agency to get involved. I want surveillance and wiretaps set up on anyone who we think could be remotely involved in this. The FBI can continue to run its investigation through the proper legal channels, but I want the NSA and the CIA to start bugging every phone between here and Seattle." Garret's eyes opened wide at the mention of wiretaps. He threw his hand up to catch the President's attention. "Jim, I think we need to talk to the Justice Department before we start running around-" "Shut up, Stu. I'm not done." The unprecedented rebuke immediately silenced Garret. He sank back into his chair and Stevens continued. "We are in the middle of a crisis, and I'm not going to sit around and wait for the FBI to do this by the book. We don't have the time. The CIA and the NSA are better equipped to get quick results and do it without raising too much attention. I want phones bugged, and I want them bugged now. I want every militia group in the country shaken down for information. If we still think these assassins are former commandos, I want every former commando questioned by the end of the week, and the ones that look suspicious--bug their phones and set up surveillance. I want results, damn it!" Garret tried again to dissuade his boss. "Jim, there are some serious legal issues that need to be addressed before we run off half-cocked."

"I don't want to hear about it, Stu. Don't tell me there aren't ways to do it. I'll sign an executive order, I'll sign a national security directive, I'll declare martial law if I have to, but I want these bastards caught, and I want it done quickly!" Stevens tossed the remote control onto the table. "Figure out the logistics and make it work. I want the CIA and the NSA involved, and I don't want any leaks to the press. Am I understood?" All heads in the room nodded yes, and Stevens moved for the door, saying, "Stu and Mike, when you're done down here, come up to my office." A Secret Service agent opened the door and the President shouted over his shoulder on the way out, "I want everyone back here at seven A.M. tomorrow, and I want some results."

Darkness was falling on the city. Michael stared out the window at the bright fall leaves hanging from the old oak tree in front of his house.

He breathed deeply and ran his fingers through Liz's thick, black hair, while rubbing his stiff neck with his other hand. Michael sat on the couch with his feet up on the coffee table. Liz had both arms wrapped around his waist, and her head rested on his chest. Her feet were tucked up behind her on the couch, and she listened to Michael's heartbeat. The rhythm of it brought her in and out of a light sleep.

Liz had been in a meeting with her editor when the news of Olson's assassination broke.

Knowing that Michael was eating lunch with the Senator, she rushed to find out if he was all right. Michael's secretary informed her that he was unhurt and on his way home. Liz left the office immediately and took a cab to Michael's house. When she arrived, she found Michael and Tim sitting at the dining room table talking. Seamus was being held in the hospital overnight for observation. The explosion had knocked him to the ground and given him a minor concussion. After Liz's arrival Tim left so Michael and Liz could be alone. For the last two hours they had sat on the couch and said little. They just held each other.

Michael's eyes were wide open, and the look on his face was one of deep thought. Liz stirred slightly and Michael brought his other hand down to rub her back. Scarlatti moaned and rolled over. She looked up at Michael with her deep brown eyes and asked, "What time is it?"

"It's ten after five."

She reached up and gently touched the bandage on his forehead. "How does your head feel?"

"Fine." Scarlatti closed her eyes and lifted her head off Michael's chest. O'Rourke bent down and kissed her lips. Liz pulled away and asked, "What are you going to do?"

"I'm not sure."

"I think you should go to the FBI."

"I need to talk to him first." Liz sat up. "Who is this guy?"

"I'm not dragging you any further into this thing."

"You're not dragging me anywhere. I want to know." Michael shook his head. "You know enough, trust me."

"I can understand your not wanting to tell me, but I think you should tell the FBI immediately. You owe it to Erik."

"I'm going to meet with him first." Liz put both hands on his chest and pushed him back. "No you're not! I will not allow it!" Michael grabbed her wrists and said, "Don't worry, Liz. I'll be fine."

Scarlatti became angry. "Don't give me that Marine Corps macho bullshit! Whoever this guy is, he's a cold-blooded murderer and I don't want you meeting him alone." Liz looked into his eyes and knew she wasn't getting through.

"If you leave this house, I'm calling the FBI." Michael placed her hands together and looked her softly in the eyes. "Elizabeth, this man thinks of me as a brother. He would never do anything to harm me."

Liz yanked her hands away. "You are not going to be able to change my mind on this, Michael. You either tell me who he is or I'm calling the FBI." Michael thought about it for a full minute and realized they were at an impasse. "You have to promise me that under no circumstances ?? . .

Never ever. will you reveal his name." Liz started to protest, but Michael cut her off. "No negotiating, Liz. If you want to know, you make the promise . . . and if you ever break it, I will walk out of your life and never speak to you again." Scarlatti swallowed deeply, the last part of the comment causing a hollow feeling to develop in her stomach. "All right, I promise." Michael stood and started to pace in front of the window. "You've met him before. twice. His name is Scott Coleman."

Michael stopped to gauge Liz's reaction. With eyes open wide she said, "The former Navy SEAL? The guy you go hunting with all the time?"

Michael nodded yes. "Why? Why would he do all of this. He seems so normal."

"He is normal. As normal as a SEAL can be, that is. As to the 'why' part of your question..." Michael shook his head. "That's another can of worms, and when I say I can't tell you about it, I am deathly serious. If I would have kept that secret to myself a year ago, none of this would have ever happened." Garret was nervous. Things were happening too fast and Stevens's new unmanageable attitude was only making things worse. Garret wasn't against using the CIA and NSA, just as long as they did it in a way that wouldn't come back to haunt them down the road. He stabbed out his half-finished cigarette and headed  off down the hall. Without knocking, he entered Ted Hopkinson's office and stood over his desk. Hopkinson was talking on the phone, and Garret signaled for him to end the conversation. Hopkinson cut the other person off in mid-sentence and told her he'd have to call back.

As soon as Hopkinson hung up. Garret set a piece of paper in front of him. Four names were on it. Hopkinson looked at the names and then up at his boss.

"Am I supposed to know who these people are?"

"No, but by tomorrow morning I expect you to know their life stories."

"Who are they?"

"They are the four Secret Service agents who were blown up with Olson today."

"And what do you want me to do with the information?"

"We've had polls telling us that as much as forty-two percent of the public believes the loss of Fitzgerald, Downs, Koslowski, and Basset may be worth it if it forces Washington to get spending under control.

Most of them are saying that because they hate politicians. Well, let's see how many of them still feel that way when they're introduced to these four men and their families. I want you to find out what high schools they went to, where their parents live, where they were married, where their kids go to school. I want you to find out everything you can about them. When you're done, we'll give it to the right people, and by the end of the week you won't be able to pick up the paper or turn on the TV without seeing or hearing about these guys and their families. By next Monday I want to see that forty-two percent cut down to single digits."

Scott Coleman left his apartment and went to the basement before leaving. Out on the front stoop he grabbed a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket and lit one. As always, he puffed on it but did not take the smoke into his lungs. Tilting his head up, he exhaled the smoke and looked at the rooftop and windows of the apartment building across the street. Next, he took a mental inventory of all the cars parked on the block, paying special attention to any vans he hadn't seen before.

Last night when he went out, he had headed to the east. Tonight he would head west.

Throwing his cigarette to the ground, he stomped it out with his boot and casually trotted down the steps. He looked relaxed and lackadaisical as he strode down the sidewalk, but inside he was methodically taking note of everything around him. Things were sure to heat up, and sooner or later someone, or some agency, would come looking for him. At the next block he stopped and waited to cross the street, using the pause to again look up and down the cross street for any vans or trucks. Crossing the intersection, Coleman turned left, continued for three blocks, and hailed a cab. The cab took him to a small bar near Georgetown. He ordered a beer, drank half of it, and then walked to the rear of the bar, toward the bathroom. Instead of stopping, he continued straight out the back door and into the alley.

He walked at a brisk pace. Four blocks later, he caught another cab and took it to a house in Chevy Chase. The house belonged to a seventy-eight-year-old widow who had rented him her garage for twenty-five dollars a month. He walked along the side of the house to the garage. The keys were already out, and he opened the padlock on the main garage door. Swinging the door upward, he pulled a small black box out of his pocket and held it by his hip. Nonchalantly he walked around the car, looking down at the row of green lights, waiting to see if they would turn red and tell him his car was bugged.

They stayed green. He got in the car, pulled it out of the garage, and then got back out to close the door and lock it. Sliding back behind the wheel of the black sedan, he drove slowly for the first few blocks and then gunned it. He zipped through the city, turning randomly down the narrow streets. The BMW's diplomatic plates and a Dutch passport he kept taped under the dashboard ensured him that he wouldn't be detained by the police. The racy driving helped release tension and served to frustrate anyone who might be trying to follow. He pulled the Beamer onto Interstate 95 and kicked in the turbo. He darted in and out of traffic until he reached Highway 50 east to Annapolis.