Term Limits

chapter Sixteen
"No, darling." He reached for her hand. "I never want you to go through that kind of pain. When my parents were killed, my brothers and sister were robbed. They were robbed of dreams never realized and moments that should have been. They never got to look up in the stands during one of their games and see my mom and dad cheering. When the games were over and they came out of the locker room . . ?? all the other kids were getting hugs and kisses from their moms, but my brothers and sister didn't have one. When they came home from school, they didn't have a mother or father to help them with their homework, and when they ate dinner, there were two empty seats at the table. My parents never got to see the five children they brought into this world grow up."

Michael stopped and looked away. Liz looked around the candle flame and asked, "What about you?" Michael shrugged his shoulders. "I'm fine."

"No, you're not." She pulled his hand closer. "What dreams did you miss OUT on?" Michael paused for a moment. "My father was my childhood idol.

He was everything I ever wanted to be. My mother. she was my best friend. the nicest, most caring person I've ever known. Every holiday, every event for the last ten years, has been incomplete, and that's the way it will be for the rest of my life." Michael's eyes glassed over.

"When we get married, it'll be the happiest day of my life, but I'll still look down at that first pew, at the two empty seats, and think about how nice it would have been to have them there." Liz squeezed his hand tight, and Michael forced a smile. "When we have our first child, he or she will only have one set of grandparents, and my parents will have never had the chance to hold their grandchild. "I have been robbed of all of these moments and many more I . . and why?" In a quiet voice he said, "All because some drunk, who had proven time and time again that he was going to keep getting hammered and climb behind that wheel, was allowed to walk free. And why was he allowed to walk the streets?

Because we don't have enough money to keep him in jail." Michael poked himself in the chest. "Let me let you in on a little secret. We have the money. We have more than enough of it, it's just that the egomaniacs who run this country would rather spend it on programs that get them votes.

That's why I think they deserved to die. It's more personal to me because their inaction cost the lives of my parents and the life of Mark Coleman, and that is why I'm not going to the FBI. "I don't expect the average person to agree with me. Most people have enough to worry about just getting through their day-to-day lives, but when you lose someone or something close to you, things take on a more serious tone." Liz wiped a tear from her cheek and nodded. Michael reached over and brushed her cheek with his napkin. The hostess approached the table and asked, "Excuse me, sir. Are you Michael O'Rourke?"

"Yes."

"You have a phone call at the hostess stand."

"Who knows we're here?" asked Liz. "I told Seamus in case he needed to get ahold of me. I'll be right back."

Michael got up and followed the waitress across the small restaurant.

Liz watched him talk on the phone and became concerned when she saw him close his eyes and shake his head. After talking for only about ten seconds, Michael handed the phone to the hostess and walked back to Liz.

"Was that Seamus?" she asked. Michael nodded yes and pulled out his money clip. He threw a hundred-dollar bill on the table and stuck out his hand for Liz. "Come on, let's go. The networks are reporting that Congressman Turnquist has been assassinated." McMahon was sitting upstairs in Turnquist's study by himself. His eyes were closed and he had a pair of thin leather gloves on his hands. His large frame rested comfortably in an old wood rocking chair. The rocking of the chair had a hypnotic effect, and Skip was in the midst of trying to re-create how Turnquist and the marshals had been killed. He envisioned a group of darkly clad men moving into position and then simultaneously killing the three guards outside with silenced weapons. They had to have used silenced weapons. All of the clues indicated that the marshal inside had had no idea that the others had been killed. An agent poked her head through the open door. "Skip, there're two people downstairs who are asking for you."

"Who are they?"

"I don't know. One of them is a Marine.

They said you were expecting them." McMahon sprang the chair forward and bounded out of it. He'd been excitedly waiting to compare notes with Heaney and Kennedy. Taking the back staircase, he went downstairs, through the kitchen, and down the hallway onto the front porch. The Quick Response Team had arrived and was setting up their equipment.

Turnquist's house looked more like a movie set than a crime scene.

Floodlights were everywhere, illuminating the entire yard. The hum of generators droned through the still night air. General Heaney and Irene Kennedy were standing by the steps on the front lawn talking to each other. McMahon approached and said, "Thank you for coming so quickly.

Have you seen any of the bodies yet?"

"We saw the one in the driveway and the other one right over there."

General Heaney pointed to the dead marshal on the front lawn. "Well, before I start picking your brains, I'd like you to look at all the bodies." Skip led them up the steps, saying, "All of the marshals were wearing body armor, but it didn't do much good." A photographer was taking photos and several agents were taking notes and talking.

McMahon asked them to step aside for a moment.

Heaney and Kennedy examined the dead marshal lying at the foot of the stairs. They looked at the three bullet holes in the center of the dead man's face and then at his holstered gun and radio. Kennedy looked into the dining room and pointed at the shattered glass. "The shots came from there, I assume." McMahon nodded. "We found five shell casings on the porch." Heaney looked up at the bloodstain on the wall of the landing.

"Is that the Congressman?"

"Yes."

"Can I go up there?"

"Sure." Heaney and Kennedy walked up the stairs while McMahon stayed by the foyer.

Standing over the body, Kennedy said, "Jesus, they really unloaded on him."

"Yeah, I count at least eight hits. Maybe more," replied Heaney.

"Any idea why they pumped so many into him?" asked McMahon from the bottom of the stairs. "Two possibilities," answered Heaney. "The first being they obviously wanted to make sure he was dead, and the second" -Heaney pointed toward the shell casings by McMahon's feet--"two or more men fired the shots. Your ballistics people should be able to answer that for us." Kennedy and Heaney trotted back down the stairs. "Let's take a look at the one out front again." McMahon led them out the front door and down the steps. "This guy got two to the face and one to the neck." McMahon bent over and lifted the man's jacket. "His gun is still holstered, but his radio is missing. We found it up there on the porch, by the broken window." Kennedy looked  to the broken window and back at the man by her feet. "They took the radio so they could find out if the guy inside knew what was going on."

Heaney looked toward the side of the house. "Were the shots fired from over there?"

"Yes." McMahon moved toward the side yard. "We found some shell casings over here. It looks like the perp took three shots. Two hit the man square in the face and the third hit him in the neck." Heaney and Kennedy looked at the shell casings and judged the distance of the shots. "I assume the last marshal is out back?" asked Irene. "Yes.

Follow me." The three of them walked around the side of the house and to the backyard. As they approached the body, McMahon said, "Single shot to the head." Skip bent down and opened the marshal's jacket.

"His gun is holstered and his radio is on his hip." Heaney and Kennedy looked at the body for only a second, then turned their attention away from the marshal and the house. They took the whole landscape in without saying a word, swiveling their heads from side to side, their eyes focusing tightly on the darkness beyond the reach of the floodlights.

Without turning, Heaney asked, "Skip, can you get them to turn these lights off?." McMahon said something to one of the agents, and the lights were cut, leaving only the small light over the back door on. The general started walking across the yard for the tree line. McMahon and Kennedy followed several steps behind, and a moment later they disappeared into the woods. Heaney navigated the dark forest with ease, ducking under branches and over fallen limbs that McMahon and Kennedy struggled with.

Upon reaching the creek they stopped and turned back toward the house.

Kennedy asked, "What do you think, General?" General Heaney looked at the FBI agents standing by the back door. "They can't see us, can they?"

"Not standing under that light they can't," responded Kennedy. "And we're not even wearing camouflage gear.

The light only goes to about the end of the yard and then dies out."

Heaney looked over to the other side of the creek. "I think it was two or more men. It could have been one, but it would have been really difficult. They were in and out in under a minute, and the marshals never knew what hit them, as is evidenced by the fact that none of them drew their guns. One or two men crept through the woods back here and took out the sentry by the back door with a single rifle shot to the head. The marshal by the front door was taken out next with an assault rifle, and then the man in the car at the end of the driveway was killed."

"I agree," said Kennedy. "Why that order?" asked McMahon. "When they killed the guy in the car, they had to shoot him through the window.

If they kill him first, the marshal out front hears the window smash and grabs his gun or radio or both. He grabbed neither because he was already dead when the window was shot out. In any case, the men outside died within seconds of each other." The general shook his head.

"These marshals never stood a chance. The guys who did this were good.

The head shots are as accurate as you can get, and they're commando style, three quick bursts to the head."

"How in the hell did they get so close to the guy in the car? He was shot point-blank."

"There's plenty of cover around here. With the right camouflage, a commando would have no trouble sneaking to within ten feet of that car.

After they take care of the three guards outside, all they have to worry about is the last marshal inside. The killers grab one of the marshal's radios to make sure the guard inside wasn't alerted... since his gun is still in his holster, it's pretty obvious he wasn't. They shoot him from the window, and then Turnquist comes downstairs to find out what the noise was, or maybe he was on his way down when it happened. They're in and out in under a minute, a minute and a half tops, and all they leave behind is five dead bodies and a couple dozen shell casings. Very clean, very professional. I'm sorry to sound so heartless, but I'm just giving my professional opinion."

"No apologies needed, General. That's what I brought you out here for.

What do you think, Irene?"

"The general is right. Things can always go wrong when you're running an operation like this, but in relation to some of the missions we've run, this thing would have been a cakewalk. These marshals aren't trained to deal with this kind of a lethal threat. We train our commandos to be able to defeat the best surveillance systems in the  world, get by guard dogs, sneak past trigger-happy terrorists armed to the teeth, and then silently kill and get away without being noticed.... The guys who did this are good, and they're used to facing a lot tougher obstacles than four U.S. marshals armed with radios and pistols." McMahon bit down on his upper lip and thought about the remaining Congressman and Senators, most of whom had less protection than Turnquist. Kennedy's point was clear: if these guys weren't caught, he would be spending more of his nights standing over dead bodies. "I need them to slip up... I need a break," murmured McMahon.

"I wouldn't count on it," replied Heaney.

THE DARK GREEN CHEVY TAHOE ROLLED EASTWARD DOWN HIGHWAY 50. It was just past midnight and traffic was light. Michael kept the speed under sixty-five and stayed in the right lane. His left hand loosely gripped the steering wheel while he leaned on the middle armrest. The stereo was tuned to an ALL news station, but he wasn't listening. The question of who was behind the murders of Turnquist and Olson was pulsing through his mind. The exit for the cabin was approaching, and O'Rourke hit the blinker.

Veering to the right, the truck started up the exit ramp. As he slowed for the stop sign, he rolled down his window and let the cold night air blow on his face. The cool breeze blowing through the window felt refreshing, but as the car accelerated, the wind rushing through the window grew annoying. Michael pressed a button, closing it. Five minutes later the unmarked road to the cabin came up quickly, and Michael braked hard. Gravel spun from under the tires as he banked into the turn and sped down the narrow road. Pulling in between two cars, he got out, walked around to the back of the truck, and lowered the tailgate. Duke jumped down and started smelling the ground as he ran in circles.

Walking toward the porch, Michael whistled once, and Duke bounded to his side. Michael patted Duke on the head and told him to stay.

Walking into the cabin, Michael took off his jacket and set it on the back of the couch. Seamus and Scott Coleman were sitting at the kitchen table. The greetings were curt. Michael apologized for being late and grabbed a mug out of the cupboard. While sitting down, he asked, "What in the hell are we going to do to stop this?" As Michael poured some coffee into his cup, he looked up for a response but got none. He took a gulp of coffee and asked, "Do we know any details about what happened to Turnquist?"

Coleman said, "The Congressman was shot approximately twelve times at close range. Four U.S. marshals were also killed. The word is it was very clean and very professional. Not one of the marshals got a shot off." Michael closed his eyes and asked, "Do we have any idea who is doing this or why?" Seamus shrugged his shoulders and said, "Erik and Turnquist have been in Washington for a long time. I'm sure they've made plenty of enemies over the years. The real question is, who would have the type of contacts to do something like this on such short notice?"

Coleman set his cup of coffee down and said, "I agree. We have to assume that whoever is behind this has the power and the connections to put together an operation like this in under a week. That shortens the list considerably." Michael thought about the type of people who would have that kind of power and said, "Unfortunately, we don't have any contacts that run in those circles."

"I have a few," said Coleman, "but if I start asking questions, they'll want to know why I'm so interested."

Seamus shook his head. "Bad idea. The last thing we want to do right now is draw attention to ourselves."

"I agree," said Michael, "but we have to do something." Seamus pushed his coffee cup forward. "I have someone I can trust who is very connected in the intelligence community, or at least Was."

"Who?" asked Coleman. "Augie Jackson."

"Who is Augie Jackson?"

"He's a very good . . . very old friend. We were in the Marines together during WW Two. After the war he went to work for the CIA and went on to become one of the Agency's top European analysts. He retired about a year ago. He's as honest a man as I've ever met."

"How often do you keep in contact with him?"

"We talk at least once a month.

Every summer we fly into Canada for a couple of days of fishing, and I usually go down and see him in the fall for a little duck hunting ....

He lives in Georgia."

"Do you think you can ask him what he thinks without drawing any attention to our involvement?" asked Michael. Seamus thought about it for a minute and said, "I think so."

"All right, see what you can find out. I trust Augie." Michael took another sip of coffee. "Now, what do we do in the meantime?" Coleman leaned back and crossed his arms. "This is tough. In all of our planning we never predicted that something like this might happen."

The former SEAL rolled his eyes. "I don't know. something tells me we should lay low and see what happens. I think there's still a good chance that the reforms will be implemented." Michael said, "Absolutely not. You guys got this thing rolling, and you're going to stop it before anyone else gets killed."

Seamus stared at Michael. "We don't have the contacts to go snooping around."

"The FBI does."

"So?"

"I think we need to alert them that someone else is involved in this."

"What will that solve?" asked Seamus.

"If we call them, they'll have to take us seriously. They will have to look into who would have the motive and the contacts to kill Erik and Congressman Turnquist. If they start asking questions and poking around, maybe it will scare these people away before they kill anyone else."

Seamus frowned and Coleman said, "I don't like the idea." Michael placed his forearms on the table. "You two started this thing, and whether I like it or not, I've been dragged into it. I am not going to condemn you for what you've done, but I will if you sit around while more good men get killed. We are going to do everything we can to stop this other group from killing again even if it means getting caught.

Am I clear?"

Coleman and Seamus reluctantly nodded yes. The clock on the desk said it was 6:12 A.M Wednesday. McMahon was sitting in his chair with his face resting on a stack of reports. He'd left Turnquist's house around midnight and came back to the Hoover Building to brief Roach. Since then he'd been busy assigning new agents to Turnquist's murder and preparing for an 8 A.M. briefing at the White House. Sometime around 5 A.M he'd laid his head down for a quick nap. He was too tired to get up and go over to the couch. The warning from Irene Kennedy and General Heaney that they could be spending more of their evenings standing over dead bodyguards and politicians had McMahon a little discouraged. He knew how to pace himself through the ups and downs of an investigation, but this was more frantic than most. The bodies were no longer coming in one at a time, and now that some fellow law enforcement officers had been killed, the investigation had taken on a more personal tone. When it was just Senators and Congressman getting killed, he looked at the case with more detachment. McMahon was immersed in a vivid dream when a noise startled him. It took a moment for him to realize he was in his office and it was his phone, not his alarm clock, that was making the irritating noise.

His head snapped up, and he lurched for the receiver. "Hello."

Michael was sitting in the back of the BMW as Coleman navigated the narrow residential streets of Adams Morgan. Next to O'Rourke on the backseat was a mobile scramble phone that Coleman had purchased through a third party in Taiwan three months earlier. The secure phone was mounted in a leather briefcase. Attached to the receiver was a voice modulator that converted Michael's voice into generic electronic tones.

The phone was touted as being trace-proof and could be used stationary, but neither O'Rourke nor Coleman was willing to trust it completely, so they stayed mobile when using it. "Special Agent McMahon?" asked Michael. McMahon went rigid upon hearing the electronic voice. Before responding, he pressed a button next to the phone starting a trace on the incoming call. Hesitatingly he said, "Yes, this is he."

"I will assume you are recording and tracing this call, so I'll be brief. The people that killed Senator Fitzgerald, Congressman Koslowski, Senator Downs, and Congressman Basset did not kill Senator Olson, Congressman Turnquist, and their bodyguards." There were several seconds of silence on the line while McMahon tried to grasp what he had just heard. "I'm not sure I follow you."

"There is a second group of killers. A group that killed Olson, Turnquist, and their bodyguards."

"Why should I believe you?"

Michael had anticipated McMahon's pessimism and had asked Coleman for some bits of information that would give the call credence. "We let Burmiester live." McMahon thought about the old man who lived across the street from Congressman Koslowski. The man they had found drugged and tied up the morning of the first three assassinations. "A lot of people know about Burmiester. That doesn't prove anything." McMahon was trying to stall and give the computers time to trace the call.

"Mr. McMahon, we do not kill Secret Service agents and U.S. Marshals.

As we stated in the last message we left for you, we have a deep respect for members of the law enforcement community. Our fight is with the politicians, not you."

"That's where you're wrong-" Michael cut him off. "Ask yourself one question. If we were willing to kill four Secret Service agents to get at Olson and four U.S. marshals to get at Turnquist, why wouldn't we have blown the President out of the sky last Friday?" O'Rourke let the question hang in the air and then said, "The answer is that we didn't kill Olson and Turnquist. Someone else did."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because we don't want to see innocent people die."

"And Basset and the others were guilty?" O'Rourke looked at his watch.

"Mr. McMahon, I don't have time to be drawn into a debate with you right now, so listen carefully. I don't know who would want to kill Turnquist and Olson or why, and I'm really not in a position to find out. All I know is that they've killed eight Federal law enforcement officers, and they'll probably kill more if you don't stop them."

"And what about you?

Are you done killing?"

"Yes." McMahon started to speak, but the line went dead.

ROACH'S LIMO PULLED UP IN FRONT OF THE WEST EXECUTIVE ENTRANCE of the White House, and the director and McMahon rushed to the door. They were almost twenty minutes late. Jack Lortch was waiting for them and ushered them quickly past the security checkpoint and to the Situation Room. The President was speaking and stopped when they entered. Everyone turned and looked at Roach and McMahon as they took their seats. "I apologize for being late, Mr. President," said Roach.

"There was a last-minute development we had to take care of."

President Stevens ignored the explanation and looked back at Mike Nance. The attendees were CIA director Stansfield, Secret Service director Tracy, Secretary of Defense Elliot, Joint Chief general Flood, and Stu Garret.

Nance said from the far end of the table, "As you were saying, Mr. President."

"Obviously, the FBI and the Secret Service can't guarantee the safety of our Congressman and Senators. Over the last two days my phone has been ringing off the hook. Every politician in this town is demanding that they be given more protection, and I don't blame them.

It's bad enough that we can't catch these terrorists, but it's inexcusable that we can't stop them from killing." Stevens shot Roach a look of disgust. "After some discussion with General Flood and Secretary Elliot, I have decided to declare martial law for the immediate area surrounding the Capitol, the Senate and House office  buildings, and the White House. Elements of the First Marine Expeditionary Force and the 101st Airborne Rangers will be used to secure the perimeter. These units will be in full combat dress and will carry live ammunition. General Flood has informed me that he will have this phase of the operation in place by sundown tonight.

"In addition to these extra measures I am going to extend to every Congressman and Senator the option to move themselves and their families to Fort Meade for the duration of this crisis. The National Airlift Command is flying in one hundred forty-two luxury trailers that our generals use when they are on maneuvers in the field. Fort Meade  also has over two hundred housing units that are not being used, and if that's not enough, we have over a thousand modern tents equipped with generators, plumbing, and heating. The general's people are working out the details right now and estimate that they will have everything ready to go within forty-eight hours.

"In the meantime, the general is pulling special security units from the Army, Navy, Air Force, and Marines to handle protection for the ranking members of the House and the Senate. Most of these units specialize in base security. I am told they are very well armed and trained in counter commando tactics.

I have talked to the leaders of both parties, and they have agreed to reconvene for a legislative session on Monday morning, after we have these new security measures in place. Until then all official business will be suspended." The President looked to Roach and said, "I am not happy about having to take these drastic measures, but the inability of our Federal law enforcement agencies to stem the tide of violence has left me with no alternative." Stu Garret had the slightest hint of a smile on his lips as he watched Stevens put the screws to Roach. The President was repeating almost verbatim what Garret had told him to say an hour earlier. McMahon, on the other hand, found nothing humorous about the situation. He didn't enjoy watching his boss take the heat for something that wasn't his fault. He looked away from the President to hide his disgust while recalling that Roach had originally suggested that the military be brought in to help secure the area around the Capitol, and that the President and Garret had said no. Roach shrugged off the President's comments and moved the discussion forward. "Mr. President, we've had a very unusual development concerning the investigation. Special Agent McMahon received another phone call from the terrorists this morning." Roach looked at McMahon. "Skip."

McMahon cleared his throat. "This morning at about six-fifteen I received a very interesting phone call." McMahon pulled a cassette tape out of his pocket and handed it to Jack Lortch. "Jack, would you please put this in the tape player for me?" Passing sheets of paper to his right and left, McMahon said, "These are transcripts of the conversation. I think it would be best if I let you hear the tape and then discuss it afterwards." Lortch walked over to the podium at the end of the table and inserted the tape. Eight small, black speakers were mounted on the walls around the room. Some static noise hissed and crackled from them, and then the sterile computer voice filled the room. "Special Agent McMahon?" After a pause, McMahon's tired voice came over the tape. "Yes, this is he." CIA director Stansfield had acquired a lot of habits from his days as a spy. One of them was the ability to study people's mannerisms while listening to them speak.

This occupational habit had become so ingrained in Stansfield that without consciously thinking about it, he leaned back in his chair and held the manuscript in front of him. His eyes peered over the top of the white sheet and worked their way around the table, looking for someone to focus in on. The computerized voice continued, "I will assume you are recording and tracing this call, so I'll be brief. The people that killed Senator Fitzgerald, Congressman Koslowski, Senator Downs, and Congressman Basset did not kill Senator Olson, Congressman Turnquist, and their bodyguards." A quick head turn caught Stansfield's eye. He looked at Garret's wide eyes and followed them across the table to Mike Nance.

Stansfield went back to Garret and examined his facial features. The chief of staff's jaw was tense and his nostrils were slightly flared.

After a full pause, McMahon's voice responded, "I'm not sure I follow you."

"There is a second group of killers. A group that killed Olson, Turnquist, and their bodyguards." Stansfield saw it again. Garret shot Nance another look. "Why should I believe you?"

"We let Burmiester live." McMahon interjected while there was a pause in the tape, "For those of you who don't remember, Burmiester is the retired banker who lives across the street from Congressman Koslowski."

McMahon's taped voice continued, "A lot of people know about Burmiester.

That doesn't prove anything."

"Mr. McMahon, we do not kill Secret Service agents and U.S. marshals.

As we stated in the last message we left for you, we have a deep respect for members of the law enforcement community. Our fight is with the politicians, not you."

"That's where you're wrong-" The sterile voice cut McMahon off. "Ask yourself one question. If we were willing to kill four Secret Service agents to get at Olson and four U.S. marshals to get at Turnquist, why wouldn't we have blown the President out of the sky last Friday?"

There was a pause in the tape and Stansfield thought of looking to see the President's reaction but was too absorbed in watching Garret. "The answer is that we didn't kill Olson and Turnquist. Someone else did."

Stansfield saw sweat forming on Garret's upper lip and followed his eyes again to Mike Nance. When Stansfield reached Nance, the national security adviser was staring back at him. Stansfield casually lowered his eyes as if he were reading the transcript. When the tape ended, the President sat dumbfounded, staring at the transcript in his hands.

"This is unbelievable." Stevens looked up. "Special Agent McMahon, is this for real?" McMahon shrugged his shoulders. "Without having had the time to really analyze it, I would have to say there's a good chance .... After the Marine One incident last Friday they sent us a tape stating that the only reason they didn't blow you out of the sky was because they didn't want to kill any Marines or Secret Service agents. Now three days later, they blow up Senator Olson's limousine with four Secret Service agents in it, and then last night they kill Congressman Turnquist and four U.S. marshals. The logic is inconsistent. No offense, sir, but if I was in their shoes, I would have shot Marine One down. You are a far more important target."

"That's assuming they had the hardware to do so," interjected a calm and composed Mike Nance from the far end of the table. "Stinger missiles are very difficult to come by. I don't think we can be certain that they had the ability to shoot Marine One down." Director Stansfield stared impassively at Nance and wondered why he'd just lied.

Seven months earlier Nance had personally briefed him that the Chinese were pushing their own version of the Stinger on the open market.

McMahon continued, "Well, these last two murders are markedly different. Until last night they had been very patient. killing and then waiting to see if their demands were met. I can see where they would have wanted to kill Olson.