Term Limits

chapter Eighteen
Augie stood and hobbled to the cab of the truck. "I've got something I'd like you to pass on to them for me." He reached behind the seat, pulled out a large legal file, and walked back to the tailgate.

Sitting down with an owly look in his eye, he said, "I think I have everything figured out, but it's probably better to leave certain things unsaid."

Augie handed the file to Seamus. "Please pass this on to your revolutionary friends."

"What's in it?" asked Michael. "Remember how I told you when I was at the Agency I was kind of a roving analyst? I was also a troubleshooter of sorts. Right before I left the Agency, Director Stansfield asked me to draw up some contingency plans for a . . . delicate operation."

Seamus looked at the file and then up at his old friend. "What kind of an operation?"

"One that no one other than Stansfield and I were to know about. ?? .

After Stansfield took over, Arthur became even more reclusive.

Stansfield knew that he would have to force Arthur to resign and became increasingly worried about how he would react. There were a lot of  concerns that he might turn on us and sell information abroad or use things that he knew to blackmail Stansfield and the Agency. He was a loose cannon, and no one knew which direction he would fire, so Stansfield did the prudent thing and asked me to draw up a plan to neutralize him."

"The folder contains the plan?" asked Michael. "Most of it. There's detailed schematics of his house on the Chesapeake. It gives a rundown on his security system, where its strengths and weaknesses are, how many guards he has and what their rotation is. The plan is a year and  a half old, so I'm not sure how much has changed. I do know that he still spends almost all of his time at the house. He has a lot of enemies, which has made him extremely paranoid over the years."

"Why aren't you going to Stansfield with this?"

"Arthur is still very well connected at the Agency. No one really knows how well for sure, but there is a chance he would be forewarned about any plans against him."

"Is that the real reason or are you just looking for someone to do your dirty work?"

"Nope. I'll be honest with you, Michael. I would like to have Arthur Higgins killed. There was a time when he was good for our country, but for the last fifteen years he's been out of control. When he left the Agency, he was warned to stay out of the intelligence business. Since then he has been cautioned by Stansfield more than once to keep his nose out of the Agency's business.

I hesitate to take this to Director Stansfield for the reasons I already gave and for the fact that Arthur has a lot of contacts at the National Security Agency. If anything happens to Arthur, they will suspect the CIA." Augie looked up at the sky for a second. "As to why I'm dumping this on your lap. well ?? . . you gave him the opportunity  to kill Olson and Turnquist, and in my book that means you should be the one to stop him." Michael stared unwaveringly at Augie and said, "I did nothing. I'm just trying to clean up the mess."

Augie looked at Seamus.

"This is your doing?"

"Yes. Can I count on you to stay quiet?"

"Yes. I happen to think that what you're doing is about twenty years overdue."

The old spy stuck his hands under his armpits. "We've killed politicians in other countries that were far less of a threat to our national security than our own leaders. Don't you think that during all my years as a covert-operations specialist I thought about doing in America what I was doing abroad?" Michael nodded, remembering that Scott Coleman had said the exact same thing to him a year ago. Michael changed the subject back to Higgins. "What makes you think we can get to Arthur?"

"I assume that you have some professionals helping you." Augie paused and held up his hands. "I don't want to know who they are or what their background is. The less I know about that the better. If they would kill Fitzgerald, Downs, Koslowski, and Basset and vanish without a trace, I assume they're pretty good. Arthur has one habit that makes him vulnerable. You'll find it in the file." Michael held up the file. "I'm interested to see what's in here."

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

MCMAHON WAS BACK IN THE JOINT SPECIAL OPERATIONS COMMAND'S conference room at the Pentagon, eating a micro-waved container of lasagna that was more than a little salty. His entire afternoon had been spent meeting with Harvey Wilcox, the deputy director of the FBI's Counterterrorism Department; Madeline Nanny, the deputy director of the FBI's Counter Espionage Department; and Director Roach. Both departments had the equipment and personnel to run surveillance on the fourteen black former commandos who were living in the D.C. metro area. Neither Roach nor McMahon had to ask for the full cooperation of the two deputy directors. Both understood the priority of the task that had been handed to them. Nanny had more available assets, so she took nine of the fourteen dossiers and Wilcox took the other five. They estimated they could initiate surveillance during the next twenty-four hours, and  depending on the individual movements of the suspects, they could have airtight surveillance established within seventy-two hours. The total number of agents to be involved was calculated at 140. McMahon finished explaining the details of the surveillance to Kennedy and General Heaney right about the time he finished eating the lasagna that he knew would give him heartburn. He slid the Styrofoam box off to the side and asked General Heaney if he had any Tums. The general produced a roll and tossed it across the table. A moment later one of the general's aides entered the room and handed him a computer printout and a cover sheet.

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

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

McMahon's face twisted into a painful look. "That's over two hundred possible suspects."

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

"What did that bring the numbers down to?" The general glanced down at the sheet. "Twenty-six Green Berets and nineteen Deltas." Kennedy peered over the top of her glasses. "What happened to all the SEALS?"

The general read over the summary for a moment. "There are only two former SEALS who fit the description of the assassin that killed Downs, and they both live in San Diego." While Kennedy wrestled with that piece of information, McMahon asked, "Where are we going to get the resources to tail forty-five people around the clock?" Looking to Kennedy, he asked, "Irene, do you have the manpower to handle this?"

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

Kennedy still didn't answer so McMahon snapped his fingers. "Earth to Irene, come in."

Kennedy's eyes came back into focus. "Excuse me."

"Do you need a break?"

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

"Yes."

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

"No, I suppose I don't."

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

"Why?"

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

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

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

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

"That's what investigations are all about, Irene," said McMahon. "You analyze evidence and narrow your search."

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

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

What if the guy wasn't black?

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

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

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

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

O'Rourke rolled over and wrapped himself around Liz. The previous evening had been a quiet one. Liz had finished writing her column about nine and came over with a movie. Luckily for Michael, she was tired and not in the mood for conversation. Thirty minutes into the video they were both asleep. Michael was trying his best to make things seem normal and was, for the most part, succeeding. It helped that Liz was busy with her job. Michael couldn't get Arthur Higgins out of his mind. After returning from Georgia, he had gone to the Congressional Library to see what he could find out about the former head of the CIA's most secretive branch. He came up with nothing, which only added to the mystery.

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

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

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

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

"Yes."

"Have you ever met him?"

"No."

"What do you know about him?"

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

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

"Have you ever been involved in one of these operations?"

"No." Coleman shook his head. "They use mercenaries . . ?? former commandos. These things can't be connected in any way to our government.

The whole reason they are run as a dark op is because the spooks know they could never get official approval. They have to have complete deniability if anything goes wrong. The money can't be traced back to the U.S. and neither can the soldiers. Before the SEALS or any other American military personnel can be sent into a foreign country to conduct a covert operation, the CIA or the Pentagon has to get approval from a ranking member of the Intelligence Committee and the President.

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

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

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

"What in the hell are a couple of former SEALS doing working for a guy like Higgins?" asked Tim. "What do you expect them to do when they leave the service . ???? go sell used cars or program computers? We are trained to do a very specific job, and trained to do it better than anyone else in the world. If you're a SEAL, you're better than ninety-nine point nine percent of all the soldiers who have ever laced up a boot. You are the best of the best, and do you know what you get paid?... You max out at about forty grand a year. Then one day you leave the service and you're confronted with two options. You go to work in the private sector in a boring nine-to-five job and get paid about the same as when you were in the military, or you go to work for some guy like Higgins and get paid six figures plus for working about fifty days a year. And guys like Higgins aren't the only people who want you. Big-time drug dealers, oil sheikhs, third-world governments, international bankers, they're all willing to pay big bucks to have a SEAL on their security staff. I know guys that are getting paid a half a million a year to sit around and play bodyguard. For a lot of these guys it's a status thing to be able to say their bodyguard is a SEAL.

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

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

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

"So you don't think it would be wise to start asking questions about Higgins?" asked Michael. "From what I've heard about the man, no, I don't. What has got you so interested in him?"

"Seamus and I took a little trip down to Georgia yesterday to talk to Augie Jackson."

"Seamus's friend who used to work for the CIA?"

"Yes .... Augie told us some pretty interesting stories about Higgins.

He's convinced that he's responsible for the killing of Erik and Congressman Turnquist." Coleman grew cautious. "So he buys into the idea that there are two separate groups doing the killing?"

"Yes."

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

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

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

"Scott, he believes in what we're doing. He hated Fitzgerald and Koslowski more than we did, and he was very convincing with the stuff he told us about Arthur."

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

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

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

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

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

"Higgins?"

"Yes."

"In principle I don't have a problem with it. From what I've heard he's the snake of snakes, but I'd like to be a little more sure that he was behind this before we go to that extreme. Besides, I'm not even sure we could get to him. My guess is that he has some pretty tight security around him." Michael slid the dossier across the table.

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

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

"Yes."

"Where did he get it?"

"He compiled it for Director Stansfield."

"They were thinking about taking him out, weren't they?"

"Yes."

"Unbelievable."

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

Like any other U.S. soldier, Coleman hated the thought that he or his men might be killed by an American-made weapon, especially a high-tech weapon that wasn't supposed to be sold. Coleman finished reading the paragraph and looked up at the former Recon Marine sitting across the table. "Michael, I think you and I should go take a look at his estate this evening." On the top floor of the residential side of the White House was a large room that faced south called the Solarium. The room sat above the Eisenhower Balcony and had large plate-glass windows running from the floor to the ceiling. Stevens liked the room because it was the brightest in the White House, and since he was starting to feel like a caged animal, he decided to move his lunch meeting up to the top floor, where he could actually see beyond the gates of the compound. He was scheduled to meet with the leaders of his party to go over the legislative agenda for Monday's reconvening of the House and Senate.

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

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

"Stu, are you sure this is the right thing to do?" Garret was sitting at a small desk feverishly writing. Without looking up he asked, "Is what the right thing to do?" Stevens waved his arm in front of him, gesturing toward the Mall. "Bringing in such a strong military presence. I mean, do we really need tanks in front of the Washington Monument? It just. it just makes me look so harsh. Like I'm a dictator."

"That's what we need right now, Jim. I've talked to every pollster from New York to L.A. over the last three days, and they're all telling me the same thing. The American people want law and order returned to their capital. The voters are scared and they're looking to you for guidance and leadership.

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

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

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

COLEMAN AND THE O'ROURKES STAYED AT THE CABIN UNTIL ALMOST 10 A.M. , talking about which course of action to take with Arthur. After the O'Rourkes left for D.C Coleman spent most of the afternoon checking out the neighborhood where Arthur lived. From his SEAL training, Coleman had developed a knack for memorizing maps. He drove down every street within five miles of Arthur's estate, checking for unmarked service drives and paths that led from the road down to the water, making mental notes of anything and everything that might be useful.

Before taking any action against Arthur he wanted to be completely familiar with the neighborhood. The closer he got to Arthur's estate the more details he took in: which houses had security cameras, which ones had Beware of Dog signs, and which ones had guardhouses. He only drove past Arthur's gate once. Anything more than that might arouse some suspicion. Besides, he was more worried about the houses that bordered Arthur's. Augie's file stated that neither had high-tech security systems. Both had security company signs at the end of the driveway, but neither had gates or fences, which probably meant the houses were wired but not the grounds. After his sight-seeing tour, Coleman drove out to Sparrows Point, just south of Baltimore on the Patapsco River. The large industrial yard was once entirely occupied by Bethlehem Steel, but with the decline of the U.S. steel industry it was now partitioned into extremely cheap warehouse and waterfront dock space. The SEAL Demolition and Salvage Corporation was located in a dirty, dank building that faced Old Road Bay on the east end of the point. The lease was a meager one thousand dollars a month for one thousand square feet of finished office space and another ten thousand square feet of bulk warehouse. Coleman pulled his Ford Explorer into the large warehouse and got out. Earlier in the day he had called his only two employees and told them to meet him at the office around 4 P.M. They were standing next to the office checking diving equipment when he arrived. Dan Stroble and Kevin Hackett were also former SEALS.

They had served on Coleman's SEAL team for three years and had left the Navy about six months after their commander. Since the inception of the SEAL Demolition and Salvage Corporation four months earlier, they had only done one job, for British Petroleum. BP had quietly contracted to have one of their abandoned oil rigs in the North Atlantic demolished.

Somehow, word had leaked out, and Greenpeace was mobilizing a group of protesters to occupy the rig and prevent the demolition. They wanted BP to dismantle the rig girder by girder. To the executives at BP the decision was simple: demolish the rig at a cost of two hundred thousand dollars or dismantle it piece by piece at an estimated cost of $5 million. BP scrambled to put together the demolition team and blow the rig before Greenpeace could mobilize. BP's best estimate was that they  could have all of the charges in place and ready to go within forty-eight hours. They found out that a boat loaded with Greenpeace activists was docked in Reykjavik, Iceland, and set to leave port the following morning. The activists would arrive at the rig by noon the next day and storm the platform, creating an international media event that would bring public and political pressure down on BP to dismantle the rig. BP needed to slow the protesters down so they would have enough time to blow the rig. The vice President of operations at BP was told to find a way to stop the activists from reaching the rig without making it look as if BP had had a hand in it. The executive made several calls to his contacts in America and Britain and found out that a new, upstart company in Maryland might be perfect for the job.

The man called Coleman and explained the situation to him. He had twenty hours to get to Reykjavik and stop the boat from leaving the harbor. The man didn't care how it was done, just so long as no one was hurt. Coleman had a rough idea of how much it would cost BP if they had to dismantle the rig, so he said he'd do the job for three hundred thousand dollars. The BP exec agreed, and Coleman, Stroble, and Hackett were on the next flight out of Dulles with their diving gear. They landed in Reykjavik just before sundown and were down at the pier by eleven that evening. During their tenure as SEALS, they had spent countless hours swimming around dirty harbors attaching explosives to hulls and disabling propellers and rudders. The only thing that was difficult about the mission was the temperature of the water. Even with their neoprene wet suits they could stay in the water for no more than fifteen minutes at a time. They took turns swimming over to the ship from a berth about two hundred feet away. Using an acetylene torch, they cut away at the U-joint where the driveshaft met the propeller. The boat would be able to maintain steerage and prop speed up to about ten knots. Anything more than that and the laws of physics would take effect. The increased torque on the propeller would  cause the sabotaged joint that connected the driveshaft to the prop to snap. They sat at a cafe the next morning and wagered on whether the ship would make it out of the harbor. Coleman didn't feel guilty about the job. He'd been around the ocean his whole life and had a deep respect for and healthy fear of it. Sending a couple thousand tons of steel to the ocean floor wouldn't harm it a bit. As they drank coffee and waited for their 8 A.M. flight back to Washington, a tug moved in and towed the ship out to the main channel. The lines were released and the ship was under way. A white froth churned up behind the stern of the boat as it headed for the open sea. It had just cleared the seawall when the frothy wake subsided and the ship stalled, turning  sideways in the middle of the channel. An hour later, Coleman, Stroble, and Hackett were on their way back to Washington. Over the last month they had received two more offers for jobs, but they had told the prospective clients they were too busy to take the work.

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

"Great, sir. How about you?"

"Fine. Have you checked the messages?"

"Yep," answered Stroble. "There was nothing on the machine."

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

Coleman knew of two others a little older than him who ran a charter fishing operation out of Annapolis and had a sneaking suspicion that they did a little work for the CIA on the side. There were also several other groups of SEALS that ran security firms, providing bodyguards for diplomats and corporate executives. Coleman and Seamus had agreed that the key to not getting caught was making sure they afforded the FBI no hard evidence. That meant no fingerprints, no eyewitnesses, and no ballistics that would link them to the killings.

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

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

Those could be detected, and if they were dumb enough to bug him, they would tip their hand. What he feared most was the use of directional microphones. The CIA had been using them for years, and the technology was getting better and better. A person could stand over three hundred feet away and eavesdrop on someone's conversation by merely pointing a microphone at them. The CIA had developed the technology to listen through walls and other hard materials where it was difficult to place a bug. As they reached the open water of the Bay, Stroble and Hackett huddled next to Coleman on the flybridge. With the engines roaring, the wind rushing past, and not another ship within a mile, Coleman started to fill them in on the details of Seamus and Michael's meeting with Augie. Neither Stroble nor Hackett was surprised by the story.

They'd heard the rumors about Higgins before, and it seemed well within the realm of possibilities that he was responsible for the murders of Olson, Turnquist, and their bodyguards. By the time they reached Annapolis, Coleman had given them all of the details regarding the meeting he'd had with the O'Rourkes. They cruised south past Annapolis to Tolly Point, and Coleman headed for shore. He told Stroble and Hackett to stay below until they were back out in the Bay. The sun was setting in the west, and patches of gray clouds were moving in off the Atlantic. Rain would be welcomed but not crucial. Still atop the bridge, Coleman maneuvered his boat into the marina at the end of Tolly Point. He saw someone standing next to the gas pumps on the dock and raised his hand to block the low sun. Coleman swung the boat in and came up alongside the dock.

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

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