Term Limits

chapter Twenty-Two

"Hermes, do you have a clear shot, over?"

"That's a roger, over." Coleman took one more deep breath and said, "On my mark, boys. Three . . . two . . . one . . . bingo!" Hackett squeezed the trigger and sent a bullet smashing into the head of the guard by the cliff and then pumped a quick round into the dog. Out in front of the house Stroble fired three silent shots at the head of the guard by the front door. The first one hit him in the temple, killing him instantly.

Grabbing the rope, Stroble swung from the tree and landed just on the other side of the fence. Stroble dropped to one knee and searched for the dog. It was nowhere in sight. Without hesitation, he snapped his gun up toward the roof and squeezed off a dozen shots. The bullets thudded into the metal casings that covered the cameras, sending sparks flying.

He heard a growl to his right, and the thick, black muzzle of the silencer snapped back to a level position, sweeping from left to right.

The dog was closing fast, growling as he ran. Stroble sent one bullet into the snout of the dog, and the creature skidded to the ground.

Slamming a fresh magazine into his gun, Stroble rose and ran for the other set of cameras, firing bullets into the windows as he went.

Coleman hit the ground a second before Michael, and as he sprinted for the patio, he could hear the bullets from Michael's gun striking the cameras above and to his left. The noise of the bullets hitting the cameras must have caught Arthur's attention because he looked in their direction. Coleman thought he was reaching for a gun at first, and then he noticed that it was his watch. Arthur broke into a decrepit run for the house, and Coleman laid down a wall of bullets that sent chips of brick flying into the air. Arthur stopped in his tracks. As Coleman closed on him, he screamed for Arthur to put his hands in the air while he unleashed a volley of bullets at the second set of cameras. Just as he got to Arthur, the floodlights came on. Coleman brought his boot up and kicked Arthur in the stomach, sending him to the ground. Coleman wheeled, firing at the floodlights hanging from the gutter of the house.

Michael did the same, and within seconds, darkness was restored.

Arthur was curled up and holding on to his stomach with both hands, gasping for air. Michael pulled a chloroform patch from his thigh pocket and ripped it open. Shoving his gloved hand into Arthur's face, he forced the old man to breathe in the fumes. After about ten seconds, Michael tossed the patch to the side and went to work on getting Arthur's clothes off. Less than thirty seconds had passed since they'd gone over the fence. Stroble approached a moment later and helped Michael finish the job. Before leaving, he made sure everything was in the bag and then sprinted for the north wall. All that remained on Arthur were his boxers. Michael threw the skinny old man over his shoulder and ran for the south wall with Coleman covering the way. When they reached the wall, Coleman jumped up, sat on the top of the wall, and pulled Arthur up by his arms.

Michael went up and over, and then Coleman dropped Arthur into Michael's arms. Coleman jumped down and the three of them disappeared into the darkness and onto the grounds of the old estate. Hackett watched from the tree and made sure Michael and Coleman got over the wall safely. As soon as they were over, he fired three shots into the door of Arthur's study and rappelled down the tree. He landed like a cat and turned for the cliff. By the time he reached the top of the steps, he could hear the twin engines of the Cigarette boat revving.

He bounded down the steps, taking them three at a time. When he hit the dock, he broke into a dash for the boat. Stroble already had the boat turned around and pointing toward the open water. Hackett leapt through the air and landed on the cushioned pad that covered the engines and then he jumped into the cockpit. Both engines roared to life as Stroble punched the two black throttles all the way down. The bow rose out of the water as the props forced the boat forward.

Hackett turned and scanned the cliff for any movement. The long, sleek boat quickly gained speed and planed out.

Stroble checked his watch. One minute and forty-three seconds had elapsed since they'd gone over the wall. CHARLIE DOBBS WAS CONTEMPLATING HIS NEXT MOVE WHEN The MONITOR to his right started beeping. Dobbs glanced over his shoulder after the second beep and moved his chair. The monitor beeped three' more times, and the information came up on the screen. active personal ALARM subject CODE NAME: RED COYOTE Dobbs stared at the code name and tried to match it with a face but couldn't. These personal alarms had become kind of a pain in the ass for the Operations Center. They were receiving more and more false alarms. Dobbs punched in his password so he could access the real identity of Red Coyote. A second later, the name Arthur Higgins appeared on the screen. That's a first for him, Dobbs thought. No need to get excited yet. He probably hit it by mistake.

Dobbs looked through the Plexiglas and watched the operator for the United States work to verify the alarm. The home phone number for Red Coyote came up on the screen along with several others.

Dobbs tapped in a keystroke so he could listen to the operator handle the situation. Their system told them that the alarm was coming from his estate, but no one was answering. He listened to the phone ring.

After about thirty seconds, Dobbs started to get nervous. The file on Red Coyote said that he had around-the-clock security. Someone should have been answering the phone. A second later, a frantic voice did.

Director Stansfield was sitting at his desk reading a report on the mental stability of North Korea's leadership. Because of the recent flurry of assassinations his regular work was suffering. He didn't like falling behind, there were too many potential problems just over the horizon. As director of the Agency, Stansfield saw it as his job to know and understand who the players were in each country that had an adversarial relationship with the United States. When things turned sour, he wanted to be able to predict the behavior of the men he was up against. The phone rang and Stansfield removed his spectacles, rubbed his eyes, and then picked it up. "Hello."

"Thomas, it's Charlie. We've got a major problem! Someone just grabbed Arthur Higgins!" Stansfield sat up straight. "How long ago?"

"His personal alarm went off about four minutes ago. We called his estate and one of the security guards verified that they'd been hit."

"I'm on my way down." Stansfield hung up the phone and headed for the door. When he reached the outer room, his bodyguard looked up from behind a desk and Stansfield said, "Come on, we're going downstairs."

The director continued into the hallway and shoved his ID card into the slot next to the elevator. Five seconds later, the doors opened and they stepped in. While the elevator descended, Stansfield battled to suppress the hope that Arthur had been killed. He hoped so for two reasons. The first, which embarrassed him, was personal. Arthur had ignored Stansfield's warnings to cease his activities in the intelligence community. He was a growing security risk and a thorn in Stansfield's side. The second reason was purely professional. If Arthur was dead, he couldn't be interrogated. He had more damaging secrets in his head than any other person in the Agency.

Arthur had conducted unofficial operations that no one else knew about, and his knowledge of official CIA operations was thorough. If he was taken alive and interrogated, the Agency would be compromised at every level. The damage would be unimaginable. The elevator opened and Stansfield approached the door to the Operations Center. He placed his hand on a scanner, and a second later the door opened. Charlie Dobbs was standing with his watch officers conferring on the crisis.

Stansfield approached. "Give me the rundown."

"We're tracking his homing signal right now." Dobbs pointed at the big screen in the front of the room. A detailed map of the Chesapeake was on the screen and a slow-moving red dot. "It appears they've got him on board a boat and are making a run for the open sea."

"Do we know how it happened?"

"We've talked to the guard who was running the control room inside Arthur's house. He says Arthur stepped outside to smoke a cigar, and then they came over the wall. He isn't sure how many of them there were because they shot his cameras out. Two of the guards are dead, and there is no sign of Arthur."

"What procedures have we put into effect?"

"We've scrambled two Cobra gunships out of Quantico and an AWAC was on patrol when the whole thing went down. The AWAC has confirmed our bogie and has classified it as a small watercraft moving at a speed of sixty-two knots. I have also notified the Coast Guard, and they are moving to set up a picket at the south end of the Bay."

"How long will it take for the choppers to intercept?"

"If there is no course change, they should intercept in about ten minutes." They all looked at the big board and watched the moving red dot. "I also activated two of our security details. I'm sending one to the estate to investigate, and the other will be airborne within the next two minutes. I'm sending them after the boat."

Stansfield shook his head. "Charlie, do whatever it takes to get him back." Stroble peered over the top of the windscreen, his night-vision goggles helping slightly, but not much. The stars and moon were blocked out by the thick clouds, and the water was black. He kept the boat just to the west of the channel markers. The Chesapeake was notorious for unmarked sandbars, and now would not be a good time to run aground on one. Hackett came out from the small cabin and announced that the  charges were set. He kept his night-vision goggles up on the top of his head and checked the sky and water behind them.

They were less than a minute away from their demarcation point.

Hackett threw their weapons and equipment over the side, everything except their fins and mask.

Taking two short pieces of rope, Stroble tied the steering wheel down so the boat would stay on a straight course. He looked at his watch and gave Hackett a thumbs-up. Hackett got on top of the engine cover and without hesitation dove off the back of the boat, curling into a ball.

As soon as Hackett was away, Stroble flipped on the running lights, grabbed his fins and mask, and ran for the back of the boat. He leapt clear of the propellers and also tucked into a tight ball. He hit the water and skipped several times, rolling as he went. Their bodies stung slightly from the initial impact, but otherwise they were fine.

Hackett appeared at Stroble's side, and they paused for a second to watch the boat rumble away. They put on their fins and masks and started swimming as fast as they could for shore. They had a little over a mile to go.

Before leaving the boat, Hackett had placed a series of small, timed charges that would rip holes in the bottom of the boat's hull. They pumped their arms powerfully through the water, their fins doing most of the work. Shortly, they were within two hundred yards of shore.

Hackett stopped and so did Stroble. Sticking his hand into the neck of is scuba suit, Hackett pulled out his radio headset. Without putting it on he held the unit next to his ear and said, "Mercury, this is Cyclops, come in, over."

"I read you loud and clear, Cyclops, over." Hackett and Stroble bobbed up and down in the water, staring at the dark shoreline.

"Can you give us a mark on your position, over?" They both saw the flicker of red light. Marking the position with a dip in the tree line, Hackett responded, "I've got a fix. We'll be joining you in a couple of minutes, over." Hackett shoved the headset back under his suit and was getting ready to swim again when he heard an all too familiar noise.

Stroble heard it, too, and they both sank a little deeper in the water.

The chopping sound grew, echoing off the water. It was hard to get a Fix on where it was coming from, but there was no doubt what it was.

It was getting louder. They turned in the water, looking skyward. The noise increased markedly, and then, without warning, two helicopters screamed over treetops above where Tim O'Rourke was waiting. For a brief second, both former SEALS thought they had been discovered, but the choppers didn't stop. They kept going, racing overhead, out into the Bay and then turning south. Stroble and Hackett looked at each other quickly and then sprinted for shore. Back in the Operations Center the tension was mounting. Stansfield watched the chase unfold on the big board. The display from the AWAC was up on the screen.

Arthur's homing signal hadn't changed course. It was still headed south. The position of the two Cobra 306 gunships was marked by a duo of green triangles on the screen. The radio communication between the pilots of the choppers and the airborne controller on board the AWAC was being played over the loudspeaker. The choppers were closing  quickly. Dobbs turned to Stansfield and said, "I have to tell the pilots what their rules of engagement are." Without pause Stansfield replied, "If they are met with the slightest resistance, they are free to use whatever force they deem necessary. I want that boat stopped."

The small charges exploded, ripping three holes in the bow of the boat and two more next to the engines. The holes in the bow acted as scoops, funneling water into the cabin. In the stern, water rose rapidly, the engines straining with the extra weight and the loss of a smooth hull. The engines revved louder and louder until they were smothered by the water. All forward movement stopped and the expensive boat slipped beneath the surface of the dark water. The controller on board the AWAC announced the decrease in speed before it was noticeable on the big board in the Operations Center. He continued to read off the decreasing speed until the boat had stopped.

Stansfield, along with everyone else in the room, watched the helicopters rapidly close the gap. The green triangles inched closer and closer to the stationary red dot. The AWAC's controller vectored the choppers right in on top of the mark, and then came the surprise.

The pilots announced no boat was in sight. The black BMW weaved through the busy Friday-night traffic of Georgetown. As Coleman drove, he told Michael that his former boss, Admiral Devoe, had called to tell him the FBI was snooping around asking questions. A pensive O'Rourke asked, "Did he say why they are interested in you?"

"Only that they wanted to know why I was discharged early." O'Rourke stared out the window and said, "That means they know about Snatch Back.

Did the admiral tell you who called him?"

"No. All he said was that they were from the Bureau.

Michael, I wouldn't get too worried yet. They might just be going down a list of former SEALS."

"I doubt it. The FBI is looking for someone who had motive enough to do this, and when they find out Fitzgerald was the one who leaked Snatch Back, they're going to be all over you." O'Rourke nervously tapped his fingers on the dashboard. "And then they're going to find out about Mark's death, and they're going to get real interested in you."

"Let them look. They're not going to find anything. They can't prove I knew squat about who leaked Snatch Back. I found out from you, and you weren't supposed to know." Michael thought about it. "If all they have is Fitzgerald's connection to Snatch Back and your brother's death, that won't be enough to indict, but it will be enough for them to assign a couple dozen agents to watch you around the clock. You are going to have to lay really low for a while. Dump the car as soon as we're done tonight, and don't go back to the garage." Coleman agreed, and several minutes later he turned onto Michael's street. They stopped in front of Michael's house and O'Rourke jumped out. Flipping up the black cover on the security pad, he punched in the code for the garage door and it opened. Coleman backed the car into the tight garage, and Michael followed, closing the door behind him. At first they were going to bring Arthur to the cabin, but since it was only fourteen miles from the estate, they thought it would be best to bring him back to the city where they could use the busy traffic and people for cover. Before opening the trunk, Michael and Coleman pulled their mesh masks down over their faces. Coleman inserted the key into the lock and pushed in. The trunk opened, revealing the bony white body of Arthur. His eyes were glassy and his wrists and ankles tied together with rope. A blue racquetball was shoved in his mouth. Michael dug the ball out and Arthur moved his jaw. With a deep look of confusion he stared up at the two dark figures. Michael almost felt sorry for Arthur and then remembered who he was. Coleman grabbed him under the armpits and Michael grabbed his ankles. Together they hoisted him out of the trunk and brought him into the house. The ground level of O'Rourke's brownstone consisted of a single-car garage on one side and a utility and washroom on the other.

They brought Arthur to the corner of the washroom and set him on the floor with his back against the wall. Coleman went out to the car and came back with a small black case. He set it on top of the dryer and opened it. Inside were two clear liquid vials and several syringes.

Coleman grabbed the vial labeled sodium pentothal, tilted it upside down, and stuck the tip of a syringe through the rubber top. Pulling the plunger back, he filled the syringe about halfway. After putting the vial of truth serum back in the case, he let the bubbles rise to the top of the syringe and squeezed some of the fluid out. Arthur mumbled something, and Coleman ignored him. The chloroform was wearing off.

Coleman grabbed a stick of smelling salts and broke it open. He stuck it under Arthur's nose, and the pungent smell forced the old man to yank his head away. Coleman did it several more times and Arthur responded verbally. "What are you doing? . . . Where am I?" Coleman ignored him and grabbed the syringe from atop the dryer. Arthur looked up at the needle and realized what was going on. "Before you use that, let's talk for a second." Coleman kneeled down and grabbed Arthur's arm. Arthur's eyes shot frantically back and forth between the head of the masked man and tip of the needle. "I don't know who's paying you, but I'll double it." Coleman found a blue vein just under the surface of Arthur's thin, dry skin. He slid the needle in and depressed the plunger. Arthur watched with a panicked look on his face. "You have no idea what you're doing. My people will come looking for me ....

They will find you no matter what it takes!" As Arthur shouted, Coleman walked out of the room and shut the door behind him. Michael came down the stairs with a tape recorder, video camera, and a set of small speakers. He handed them to Coleman and went into the garage to grab the mobile scramble phone. When Michael got back, he asked Coleman how long it would take for the drug to take effect, and Coleman told him about another five minutes. Both of them went back into the washroom. The second they opened the door, Arthur began pleading, his voice growing more placid by the minute.

Michael and Coleman ignored him while they set up the equipment.

O'Rourke plugged the two speakers into the mobile scramble phone and attached the voice modulator to the mouthpiece of the handset. Coleman took the video camera and mounted it on top of a tripod. They did a quick test to make sure everything checked out. Michael waved for Coleman to follow him, and they stepped out into the hallway.

"Remember, I'll ask the questions. If you want to say something, turn off the tape recorder and camera first. If we end up using this tape, the CIA and the FBI will analyze every little noise."

"Understood."

"Is there any chance he'll be able to lie to us?" asked Michael. "No, I've used this stuff in the field before, and you can't fight it."

Michael nodded and they went back into the room. Arthur sat in the corner staring up at the light in the middle of the ceiling. Coleman approached, grabbed Arthur's jaw, looked into his heavily dilated eyes, then told Michael Arthur was ready. Coleman turned on the camera and Michael hit the record button on the tape recorder. Speaking into the modulator, Michael asked, "What is your name?"

Director Stansfield stared at the big board on the front wall of the Operations Center and noted the running time since Arthur's personal alarm had been sounded.

They were approaching the forty-minute mark, and things were not looking good. With each tick of the clock, the odds of getting him back got worse. They were still getting a signal from Arthur's beacon, but the Cobra gunships had found nothing. Navy frogmen were on the way from Norfolk to find out what was beneath the water. At first they thought Arthur's alarm might have been thrown overboard by his abductors, but the AWAC operator told them the bogie had stopped dead in the water. The quick-reaction team had arrived at Arthur's estate and was assessing the situation. Only one thing was certain: Arthur was nowhere to be found.

Stansfield watched as his people in the Operations Center alerted the Coast Guard, local law enforcement agencies, airport officials, and U.S. Customs agents to be on the lookout for anything suspicious. For security reasons, they didn't tell anyone the real reason for the alert, only that they were looking for a fugitive. They didn't want the story ending up in the press. Stansfield knew if they were to get Arthur back at this point it would take luck, and to get lucky they had to hustle.

For every minute that expired, their chances of getting him back decreased. Stansfield also had procedure to follow. He picked up a secure line and dialed the number for the National Security Desk at the White House. "National Security Desk, Major Maxwell speaking. Please identify yourself."

"This is Director Stansfield of the CIA. Is the President on premise?"

"Yes, sir."

"Alert the National Security Council and bring them in. We have a potential crisis in the making. Tell the President I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

"Yes, sir." Stansfield hung up the phone and told his bodyguard to get the chopper warmed up. The director then turned to Dobbs. "Charlie, hopefully we'll get him back, but we have to start preparing for the worst. Get everyone in here. I want damage assessment reports as quickly as possible. We need to know what current operations might be in jeopardy, and how many of our agents' covers could be blown if Arthur is interrogated."

"Do you want me to alert our friends overseas?"

"Don't tell the embassies yet. We'll wait another hour or so."

"What about the Brits? Arthur did a lot of work with them."

Stansfield hadn't even thought of that yet. Their allies would be extremely upset. "Hold off on that for another hour or so. I'll have to make those calls personally. If any further developments arise, call me immediately." Arthur answered the last question of his life.

Michael looked at Coleman in complete disbelief and hit the stop button on the tape recorder. As Michael rose, he pointed toward the door and Coleman followed. When they got into the hallway, they took off their masks and stared at each other. They could not believe what they had just heard.

Michael spoke first, through clenched teeth. "This is unbelievable!'' "It's more than unbelievable, it's enough to bring the whole government down. Do you know what would happen if we released this tape to the press?"

"We'll be the bastards of the international community," said O'Rourke.

"It'll rip the country apart. If Watergate tarnished the presidency, this will destroy it forever." Coleman pointed toward the room. "Do you want to ask any more questions?" O'Rourke thought about it for a second and said, "No. We found out what we wanted." Michael looked at his watch. "The sooner we get rid of him the better."

"I agree. Make a copy of the tape, and I'll take care of Arthur."

They both went back into the room. Michael grabbed the tape and went upstairs. Coleman grabbed the empty syringe from atop the dryer and pulled the plunger back, filling it with air. Bending down, he looked into Arthur's glassy eyes for a second, and then, with utter disdain, he stuck the needle into Arthur's arm. Coleman depressed the plunger, sending thousands of lethal air bubbles into Arthur's bloodstream.

Coleman had no desire to watch him die and went to the garage to find something to wrap the body in. Michael came back downstairs several minutes later and helped Coleman wrap Arthur in green trash bags. They placed the corpse in the trunk of the BMW and covered it with some blankets. Coleman looked at O'Rourke and asked, "What are you going to do with the tapes?"

"I'm not sure."

"Are you thinking about releasing them to the media?"

"I'm not so sure it would be a good idea." Coleman nodded. "I think it would set us back a hundred years."

"I agree."

"Well, whatever you decide to do, you're going to have to do it without me. I don't think you and I will be able to see each other for a while.

If you're right about the FBI, I'm going to have to lay low."

"I've been thinking about that. This tape might come in handy."

"How?" asked Coleman. Michael shook the tape in front of Coleman's face.

"This little confession would topple the entire government if it was released. Whether Stevens was involved or not, he would be implicated.

He would be willing to do almost anything to keep this from being released, and the CIA... they stand to lose the most. If this thing went public, the entire Agency would be shut down within a week. They would do almost anything to keep it quiet."

"Yeah, like putting a bullet in the back of our heads."

"Not if we do it right.

Let's talk about it in the car."

"You're coming with me to dump the body?" asked a surprised Coleman.

"Yeah, I know the perfect place."

DIRECTOR STANSFIELD'S HELICOPTER FLEW UP The POTOMAC, ITS BRIGHT spotlight shining off the dark water below. It banked to the east, passing over the Lincoln Memorial, and continued up the Mall. The strobe light fluttering near the White House alerted the pilot to his exact landing area on the South Lawn. The small chopper came in and set down gently on the grass. Stansfield opened the door and got out, bending at the waist as he walked clear of the blades. Two Secret Service agents approached and escorted him through the Rose Garden and into the West Wing of the White House, where they were greeted by one of Stu Garret's aides. Stansfield started for the stairs that would take him to the Situation Room and the aide said, "Excuse me, sir. I was told to bring you to the Oval Office." With a look of surprise Stansfield asked, "Why?"

"I don't know, sir. I was only told to take you to the Oval Office."

Stansfield followed the aide down the hallway and into the empty Presidential office. The aide left and Stansfield stood awkwardly in the middle of the room shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

As the minutes mounted, so did his blood pressure. He looked at a Secret Service agent standing watch at the door and asked, "Where is the President?"

"He's attending a state dinner, sir." Stansfield looked down at the floor and then back at the agent. For the first time in a long while he thought he might lose his temper. The complete lack of professionalism by the Stevens administration was wearing on him.

Instead of yelling, he turned and walked over to the President's desk.

Picking up the phone, he told the operator to get him the National Security Desk. Several seconds later, there was a click on the line and a voice said, "National Security Desk, Major Maxwell speaking, please identify yourself."

"CIA director Stansfield. Have the members of the National Security Council been told that I've called an emergency meeting?"

"No, sir."

"Why?"

"I was told to wait until you arrived, sir."

"By whom?"

"Chief of Staff Garret, sir." Stansfield's voice stayed even, but gained a slight edge. "Major, is Chief of Staff Garret in the national security chain of command?"

"No, sir."

"Listen to me carefully.

We have a level four national security crisis on our hands. I am giving you a direct order to send out an alert immediately! I want the NSA, the SOD, the SOS, and the chairman of the Joint Chiefs here within the next ten minutes! Am I understood?"

"Yes, sir." Stansfield hung up the phone and dialed the number for the CIA's Operations Center. Charlie Dobbs answered and Stansfield asked him for an update. "The divers found a boat sunk at the spot where the beacon was last marked. They also found a bag on board with Arthur's clothes and watch .... It looks like a diversion."

"Anything else?" Stansfield looked up from the desk as Garret strutted into the room wearing a tuxedo. Before Dobbs could answer, Stansfield said, "I have to go, Charlie. I'll call you back."

Stansfield hung up the phone and watched Garret approach in his black tuxedo. Garret pulled a cigarette out of his mouth and said, "This better be good, Tom. This is the first time the President has had a chance to relax in over two weeks."

"Where is Mike Nance?"

"He's at home. What's so important?" Stansfield was almost distracted by the anger he felt for Garret but forced himself to stay focused on the crisis. "A high-level CIA official has been kidnapped."

"How high?" asked Garret as smoke billowed from his nostrils. "I'll tell you as soon as you get the President down in the Situation Room where he should be!"

Stansfield's frustration was becoming evident. "Hey, take it easy, Tom.

You can't expect us to drop everything we're doing every time you call over here." Stansfield shook his head and walked toward the door.

"This is not a game, Mr. Garret. I expect to see the President down in the Situation Room immediately!"