Term Limits

chapter Twenty-Six

Michael grabbed Garret's chair and turned it toward him so Garret couldn't look at Nance. "You see, the assassins also wrote in the letter that if you and Nance tried to squirm your way out of this, they would hunt you down and kill you."

"Mr. President," shouted Nance. "This behavior is entirely unacceptable!'' Before Nance could get his next sentence out, Michael shouted, "I told you to keep your mouth shut!

That's my last warning!" Garret began shaking and Michael leaned in closer, placing his hands on the armrests and bringing his face within inches of Garret's. "What's it going to be? The choice is simple.

Either you admit to what you did and walk away from this with your life, or you deny it and the whole country comes crashing down on you.

Those assassins will release that tape if Nance doesn't announce his resignation by noon tomorrow." Michael screamed, "Now tell the truth!"

"I... I..." Garret started to stammer. "Stu, don't answer him."

Nance reached for the phone to call for the Secret Service agents standing watch outside the soundproof room. "I don't know who in the hell you think you are." Michael saw Nance reach for the phone, and with both hands on the armrests of Garret's chair he jerked it out of his way. The chair, with Garret in it, slid across the floor and bounced into the wall. Michael took one step forward, raising his clenched left fist to his shoulder. Nance had just got the phone to his ear when he looked up to see the looming O'Rourke. Michael's fist came crashing down like a piston, smacking Nance square in the nose and sending the national security adviser back in his chair and then springing him forward, his head thumping off the solid oak table. The only thing that kept Nance from falling to the floor was that his chin was stuck on the edge of the table. His arms dangled at his sides, and a small pool of blood formed under his nose. Neither Stansfield nor the President moved. Michael turned to Garret with his fist still cocked. Lunging forward, he grabbed Garret by the tie, yanked him to his feet, and slammed him against the wall. Michael released the tie and grabbed him by the throat. Garret reached up with both hands and pawed at Michael's fist. O'Rourke's hold was too strong. Michael squeezed harder, cutting off Garret's windpipe.

In a voice loud enough so only Garret could hear, Michael said, "If I had it my way, I would kill you right now. You've got one more chance to come clean and admit to what you did. If you don't, I'm going to grab you by the hair and slam your face off that table until your head splits in half!" Michael let go of Garret's throat and took ahold of the small patch of hair on the back of his head. Swinging him around, he presented the shaking chief of staff to Stansfield and the President. O'Rourke growled, "Tell them the truth!" Garret began whimpering, "It wasn't my fault. It was Mike and Arthur's idea." The President looked at Garret in utter shock. He couldn't believe any of this was happening. "It wasn't my fault, Jim. I swear it wasn't my fault," pleaded Garret. Garret's denial cum admission brought a second wave of uncontrollable anger rising up from within O'Rourke. He tossed Garret to the side, and as he bounced off the wall, he was met square in the jaw by O'Rourke's fist.

Garret's upper body twisted briefly in the direction of the blow, and then his knees buckled, bringing his body crashing to the floor.

Michael stood over Garret for several seconds, adrenaline rushing through his veins, fighting the urge to kick his teeth in. He took several deep breaths and got control of himself. Turning, he looked at a wide-eyed and stunned President Stevens. Michael ignored him and walked back to where he had been sitting. As he put on his watch, he said, "Director Stansfield, I'll leave you and the President alone to work out the rest of the details. Call me later and we'll talk."

Grabbing his suit coat off the back of the chair, he walked to the door. Neither Stansfield nor the President said a word.

THE NORTHWEST WING OF MIKE NANCE'S RURAL-MARYLAND HORSE ranch was decorated in a turn-of-the-century Western decor. The large room was forty feet long and half as wide. Dark oak paneling covered both the walls and the ceiling. Three antique brass-and-wood ceiling fans helped partition the room into thirds. On the right was an ornate wood bar that looked as if it had been plucked out of an old Western saloon.

The middle of the room was dominated by a stone fireplace with a buffalo head mounted above the mantel, and the far end was occupied by a billiards table. The walls were adorned with expensive oil paintings of Western landscapes and U.S. cavalry troops and Indians in the throes of battle. The owner of this expensive collection of American art had never learned to appreciate the beauty and history of the room. His input into its decoration was limited to writing the check to the interior decorator. Mike Nance stood in front of the bar with a glass of Scotch in his hand. It was his third in less than an hour. Nance stared at his reflection in the mirror that adorned the wall behind the bar. The white bandage over his nose made his two black eyes look worse. With a tense restraint, he reached up and carefully pulled off the bandage. He set the blood-soiled bandage on the bar next to his drink and decided to leave the two pieces of crimson-colored cotton in his nose. Looking into the mirror, he could see over his shoulder that the sun was floating downward in the western sky. Nance turned and walked to a set of French doors that looked to the west and over his estate. The soon-to-be-former national security adviser judged that in another hour it would be dark. He took a drink of Scotch and again asked himself if there was a way out. He was not ready to give up.

His resignation did not have to be announced until noon tomorrow, and until then he wasn't done. Nance heard the clamor of frantic footsteps coming down the hall, and a moment later the door sprang open. Stu Garret entered wearing a tan trench coat and minus two of his upper front teeth. Garret approached with his hands thrust outward in an apologetic fashion. "I'm sorry, Mike. I didn't want to talk, but I didn't see any other way out." Nance had not seen Garret since he'd been knocked unconscious earlier in the day. An hour earlier Nance had called the loose-lipped chief of staff and summoned him to his ranch.

Garret continued to blab, but Nance wasn't listening. As soon as Garret came within striking distance, Nance reached out in a wide arc and slapped him in the face. The sound of skin on skin rang out through the long room. Garret immediately stepped backward and clutched his cheek. With his eyes opened wide he screamed, "What in the hell did you do that for?" Nance felt a wave of satisfaction wash over him. He smiled ever so slightly at Garret. "That is for not keeping your mouth shut."

While rubbing the sore spot on his face, Garret shot back, "This whole thing wasn't my f*cking idea, Mike. I can't believe I let-" Nance raised his hand in preparation to strike again and took a step forward.

Garret cowered backward and put his hand up to block the blow. Nance did not hit him. Instead, he kept his hand above his head and said, "I am the only thing standing between you and your grave, Stu. Lest you've forgotten, Arthur took out a contract on you before he died, and  I'm the only one who can rescind it." Taking another step backward,Garret said, "Well, why in the hell don't you call it off?."

"It's not that simple, Stu. And besides, I'm not so sure I want to."

"What do you mean, you don't want to?" asked a panicked Garret. Nance finally lowered his hand and took a deep breath. "If you could have kept your mouth shut, we wouldn't be in this mess."

"What about the f*cking tape?" asked Garret with bugged eyes. "They had that damn tape of Arthur admitting everything. That wasn't my fault."

"I knew I should have never listened to Arthur." Nance glanced upward and shook his head in frustration. "I told him you didn't have the stomach for this."

"Hey, I was fine until that madman O'Rourke started flexing his muscles."

"You were cracking long before he entered the picture." Nance turned and looked out the window for a moment. His thoughts settled on O'Rourke. "I wonder if Mr. O'Rourke knows more than he was letting on."

"What do you mean?"

"I think it might be worth our while to have a little chat with the young Congressman." Nance looked past Garret and honed in on his own reflection in the mirror behind the bar. He reached up and gently touched his swollen, purple nose. "Besides, I'd like the opportunity to give him a little payback."

"Mike, are you f*cking crazy? We've been given a chance to walk away from this whole mess. Let's take the deal and cut our losses." Nance wheeled toward Garret, causing the chief of staff to abruptly step backward. "I have worked my whole life to get where I am." Nance stepped closer and Garret retreated, matching his strides. "I am more than willing to gamble on the fact that O'Rourke might know more than he claims. We have nothing else to lose thanks to you and your lack of composure." Nance turned away from Garret and walked toward the door.

"Wait right here, Stu. I'll be back in a minute." Nance walked to the opposite end of the four-thousand-square-foot rambler. He stopped at the door to his private study and punched in the eight-digit code for the security lock on the door. The light turned from red to green and he twisted the handle.

After he entered the room the door closed behind him and automatically locked. Walking around the desk, Nance turned on his computer and sat in an old wooden swivel chair. He rocked back and forth and waited for the program manager to come on-line. He went into his personal database after entering his password, then pulled up the file manager.

Pressing down on the mouse, he scrolled through a list of files until he found the one he was looking for. Nance double-clicked the mouse, and the system asked for another password. Nance entered it, and a moment later he was staring at the name he needed. Nance reached down and opened the right drawer of the desk, revealing a secure phone. He picked up the handset and punched in the number. After several whirling noises, a curt voice answered on the other end, "Hello."

"Jarod, this is Mike. I need you to do a little job for me." There was a slight pause. "How difficult?" In a calm voice Nance replied, "No danger to you. The job is rather delicate though. Why don't we say. an even fifty." Michael O'Rourke was sound asleep. The events of the last three days had left him exhausted. After his meetings earlier in the day at the White House and Langley, Michael made a brief appearance at a private visitation for Senator Olson and then went home to sleep. He had just enough energy to make it up the stairs to his bedroom before falling facedown and passing out. O'Rourke had lain in this position, without moving, for almost five hours. Michael stirred slightly at the noise of someone in his room. He was deep in a dream, and at first, he couldn't decide if someone was really in his room or if it was part of his dream. He made an effort to roll over, but his arms were pinned underneath him and asleep. The next thing he knew he felt a hand on his head. His heart began to race, and his eyes popped open. It took a moment for his eyes to come into focus, and when they did, they revealed a concerned Liz Scarlatti hovering over him.

O'Rourke rolled onto his side and freed his rubbery arms. He reached up for Liz and pulled her close. Scarlatti smiled and kissed his ear.

"I've been calling you all afternoon. Where have you been?"

O'Rourke rubbed his eyes and let out a big yawn. Then, looking toward the window, he asked, "What time is it?"

"Ten after six."

"Wow."

O'Rourke stretched and twisted his body, letting out a groan. "That was the nap of the century."

"How long have you been asleep?" Scarlatti asked, running her fingers through his thick, black hair. "I'm not sure.

I think since around one." O'Rourke squeezed Liz tight and kissed her neck. "Mmm . . . you feel good."

"So do you. I haven't seen enough of you lately."

"We're going to have to rectify that." Rolling over, Michael pinned Liz underneath him. She wrapped her arms tightly around his broad back and pulled him close, kissing him. O'Rourke's midsection growled loudly, and Liz froze her kiss. "Was that your stomach?"

O'Rourke nodded. "What have you eaten today?" O'Rourke looked up at the headboard while he tried to remember what he had eaten. "I'm not sure.

It was a pretty hectic morning."

"Are you going to tell me about it?"

"Honey, I don't think you'd believe me if I told you." With a cautious tone Liz asked, "Did you find out who is behind Erik's death?"

"Yep."

"Who?"

"I'm not sure you want to know." Liz pushed him off her and sat up.

"Yes, I do." Michael was on his back looking up at her. She had that serious, stubborn look on her face. "Honey, this is some pretty serious shit. I honestly think you would be better off not knowing any of it."

Liz poked him in the chest. "Do you remember when you told me the other day that if I ever divulged that Scott Coleman was behind the first four assassinations you would walk out of my life and never talk to me again?" Michael nodded yes. "Well, I can't live the rest of my life with this big secret hanging between us. If you don't trust my word that I will keep your secret, then maybe I should consider walking  out of your life." The comment stung, and Michael propped himself up on his elbows.

"It's not that I don't trust you, it's just that. the information could be dangerous."

"I'm a big girl," Liz said in a patronizing tone.

"If you don't trust me enough, then we have some problems." She stared unflinchingly at him. Michael struggled with what to do. He was tired, he was sick of the entire mess, and he just wanted the whole thing to be over. He rubbed his eyes for a second and then sat up.

"All right. Here is what happened, and it goes without saying that you can never repeat any of this." Michael started to recount the events of the last twenty-four hours. Again he omitted Seamus's involvement with Coleman and failed to mention how they had found out about Arthur.

He also neglected to tell her that he had knocked out Stu Garret and Mike Nance.

When Michael had finished telling his edited version of the story, there was a brief silence while Liz gathered her thoughts. With a look of deep concern she asked the question that hit closest to home. "Who killed Arthur?"

"Scott."

"Do you think the President was involved?"

"I'm not sure. Stansfield doesn't think so, but he's going to look into it." Liz bit her lower lip. "I can't believe the FBI is going along with this."

"They have no other choice. If Nance and Garret's involvement in this were to be made public . . ." Michael shook his head. "The whole country would erupt." Scarlatti didn't respond. She had a far-off look in her eye. Michael grabbed her by the cheeks and said, "Don't even think about it, Liz. This story can never go public." She pulled his hand away.

"It's not right, Michael. The people deserve to know. It's not acceptable to have the CIA and the FBI running around behind our backs conspiring to cover up murders that were committed by the President's top advisers."

"If this story were to get out"-Michael held up a finger-"number one, we would lose all credibility in the international community. Number two, the CIA would be shut down for good-" "That might not be such a bad thing." O'Rourke shook his head. "The CIA does more good for this country than you will ever know. The only time we ever hear about them is when they screw up. Their successes far outweigh their failures.

It's not like they can hold a press conference and announce that they've recruited one of Saddam Hussein's top generals to spy for us."

"I don't like the idea of all this secrecy. It's wrong.

It's the people's right to know." In a soft voice Michael asked, "Even if it tears the country apart?" Liz silently struggled with the question for a moment. "I gave you my word, and I'm not going to go back on it. I might not like this whole mess, but I'm just happy it's over and you're safe."

"Thank you." Michael's stomach growled again and Liz said, "I guess someone's hungry."

"I'm starved."

"How about I make us a nice quiet dinner for two, and then we spend the rest of the night right here in bed?" Michael grinned. "What's in it for me?" Scarlatti laughed. "Oh, you'll see." Liz grabbed him by the arm and led him toward the bathroom.

"You take a shower and get cleaned up. I'll go to the store and get some stuff for dinner." She smacked him on the butt and pushed him toward the bathroom. Scarlatti then headed downstairs and grabbed Duke's leash off the coat rack. The yellow Lab, upon hearing the familiar jingle of his leash, appeared excitedly at Liz's side, and a  moment later they were out the door and on their way to the Georgetown Safeway. Director Stansfield looked around the conference table in his office and noted how tired the other attendees were. FBI director Roach sat slouched with his chin resting on his chest, his eyes open but red. Skip McMahon was yawning, and Irene Kennedy was taking her glasses off so she could rub her eyes. It had been a long day, and none of them had gotten much sleep the night before. Assessing that any further work would be useless, and that he didn't have the strength to argue anymore, Stansfield decided it was time to wrap things up.

"Skip, I apologize for putting you in this situation, but there is no other option. If we call off the investigation, too many people will want to know why." McMahon shook his head. "It's a waste of manpower.

I have over two hundred agents working on these assassinations, and they sure as hell could be used on other cases. cases we can eventually bring to trial."

"It's not an entire waste," stated Stansfield in his most conciliatory voice. "It's very important that we find out who these assassins are, even if we can't bring them to trial."

"I'll give you that. I just don't want this manhunt to turn into a two year ordeal and cover-up with hundreds of agents wasting their time."

"I agree with you, Skip," replied Roach, "but there is no other way to do it. It's important that we find out who the assassins are, and we have to keep the investigation going or the press will go nuts. When the timing is right, I'll transfer you and put you in charge of something else." McMahon nodded his acceptance. "I know that we have no other choice, but what I can't accept is Nance and Garret getting away with this scot-free. God, I'd love to get my hands on them." The senior agent's face was twisted with anger. Stansfield smiled and stood.

McMahon's honesty had grown on him over the last several weeks. The CIA's top spook walked over and patted McMahon on the shoulder. "I wouldn't worry too much, Skip. If they step out of line, I'm sure our mystery assassins will give them a call. It's been a long day. Let's get some sleep, and we'll talk in the morning." Everyone nodded in agreement and rose to leave. Stansfield walked them to the door and then asked Kennedy to stay behind for a minute. Stansfield closed the door, and he and Kennedy walked over to the director's desk.

Stansfield began placing several files in his briefcase. "Irene, what is your read on Congressman O'Rourke?"

"How do you mean?"

"Do you think he knows more than he's telling us?" Irene pursed her lips while she pondered the question. "I suppose it's a possibility."

Stansfield turned and placed a single file in his safe. "I think we should run a check on him, but do it quietly. He's not the type of person we want to upset, but all the same, I think we need to see if he  as any ties to these assassins." Kennedy nodded. "I'll handle it personally." THE MAROON .AUDI DROVE CASUALLY DOWN THE STREETS OF GEORGETOWN. The fifty-four-year-old man behind the wheel was a former U.S. intelligence operative turned freelance operative, or "utility man," as he was referred to by his fellow spooks. He had received a call from a man for whom he had done a lot of lucrative work over the years.

If his old acquaintance was telling the truth, and there was no security, the job would be simple. The unimpressive, gray-bearded man drove past the house twice and parked. For several minutes he pointed a directional microphone at each room of the house. When he was relatively certain that only one person was home, he put away the equipment and got out of the car. He walked to the trunk to make sure it was unlocked, and while he did so, he did a quick check of the street. After looking up at the lit windows of the house in question, he patted his pockets to make sure he had everything and then put on a pair of black leather gloves.

Michael felt ten times better after his long, hot shower. He dried off as best as he could in the mist-filled bathroom and then tried to wipe the steam off the mirror. He cleaned off a small patch and noticed that although he felt better, he still had dark marks under both eyes.

After pulling on jeans and a well-worn gray sweatshirt, he heard the doorbell ring. As he bounced down the stairs, he wondered briefly who it could be and then realized Liz had probably forgotten her keys.

Michael hit the landing with a thud and grabbed for the doorknob.

Yanking the door open, he said, "You forgot your keys again, huh?"

When the door opened fully, O'Rourke froze for an instant. He didn't recognize the gray-bearded man wearing an olive trench coat and a brown fedora. Before Michael could think, the fatherly individual smiled and asked, "Congressman O'Rourke?"

Michael looked down at the older man and replied, "Ah... yes." With the smile still on his face, the visitor retrieved his right hand from his pocket as if to shake Michael's hand. In a smooth, nonchalant motion he extended a Tazer stun gun and squeezed the trigger. A metal-and-plastic dart streaked out of the end of the electric-shock gun and embedded itself in Michael's stomach. O'Rourke went rigid as two hundred thousand volts of electricity shot through his body. He took two steps backward and then collapsed. As he fell to the ground, he landed on a thin wooden table in the entryway, shattering the fragile piece of wood beneath him and sending several framed photos crashing to the floor. Michael lay clutching his stomach, unable to move. The not-so-harmless visitor moved with precision. Before Michael hit the floor, the man had already stepped into the foyer and closed the door. Next he pulled a syringe gun from his left pocket and held it to O'Rourke's neck. He depressed the trigger and sent enough muscle relaxant into the Congressman's system to keep him nice and docile for the next hour. Plastic handcuffs were quickly fastened to both O'Rourke's wrists and ankles, and a strip of duct tape was placed over his mouth. Next the intruder moved to the window and looked outside. He extinguished the light over the front door and also the one in the hallway. After scanning the street, he returned to O'Rourke and with amazing ease hefted the much larger O'Rourke over his shoulder. One more quick check of the street and the man was out the door and down the steps. He carried O'Rourke to the rear of his car, where he lifted the already unlocked trunk and deposited O'Rourke like a sack of potatoes. Michael hit with a thud, and the older man checked to make sure his hostage's arms and legs were out of the way, then closed the trunk. He climbed behind the wheel of his car and pulled away from the curb. One block away, he grabbed his secure digital phone and punched in a number. After one ring Mike Nance answered, "Hello."

"I've retrieved that package for you. I should be at your place in less than thirty minutes."

"Any problems?"

"None."

"I'll be waiting." The former intelligence operative hung up the secure phone and sped off in the direction of Maryland. He smiled briefly at the thought of collecting fifty thousand dollars for such an easy job and then began to wonder what Mike Nance wanted from the Congressman in his trunk. Scarlatti walked down the tree-lined street with a bag of groceries in one hand and Duke's leash in the other.

Autumn-colored leaves dotted the sidewalk and curb. A chilling breeze kicked up as she turned onto O'Rourke's street. She looked forward to spending the night with Michael, and there would be next week. They were scheduled to leave on Sunday afternoon to go back to Minnesota for Senator Olson's funeral.

She didn't relish the somber occasion, but it would be nice to get out of D.C. for a while.

Northern Minnesota was beautiful this time of the year. Duke made the turn up the steps to Michael's house, and Liz followed with an outstretched arm. She fished for her keys and, after finding the right one, opened the door. Duke ran inside, and Liz let go of the leash.

She could take it off after she got rid of the groceries. She turned on the light and went to set the groceries down but froze. The table she wanted to set them on was lying on the floor in a half dozen pieces. Liz called out Michael's name. She listened intently for a reply, then yelled his name louder. Duke came back down the hallway and rubbed his neck against her leg. Scarlatti reached down and patted his head. She set the groceries on the floor and headed for the stairs, calling Michael's name again. Her heart began to quicken, and she called for Duke to follow.

Once upstairs, she inspected the steam-streaked mirror in the bathroom and then checked the den before heading back downstairs, all the time calling Michael's name more frantically. She flew down the stairs to the basement and threw open the door to the garage. His truck was there. She turned and sprinted back up the stairs to the kitchen and checked to see if his keys were on the hook-they were. Scarlatti bit her lip while she thought of all the things Michael had just told her.

She couldn't help but think the worst. I was only gone for thirty minutes, she thought to herself. She took a deep breath and tried to think of where he could be, but her mind kept coming back to the broken table in the front hallway.

Her hand sprang for the phone on the kitchen wall, but she stopped short. "Should I call the police?" she asked out loud. She willed herself to calm down and not overreact. "I'll call Tim. Maybe Tim and Seamus stopped by, and they went to pick me up at the store."

Scarlatti quickly punched in Tim's phone number, and after several rings Michael's brother answered. "Tim, this is Liz. Do you know where Michael is?" Tim paused for a second. "I think he's at his house."

"No, he isn't." Liz's voice grew more frantic. "I'm here right now!"

She spoke at a rapid pace. "I came by an hour ago, and he was napping.

I got him up, and he got in the shower while I went to the store. I just got back, and he's nowhere in the house . . . and that little table by the front door is smashed. like someone fell on it.  ...

Something isn't right, Tim."

"Calm down, Liz. Is his truck gone?"

"No! His truck is here . . . his keys are here . . . I was only gone for a half hour. He knew I was coming right back. Something bad has happened. I'm calling the police!"

"No!" yelled Tim. "Seamus and I will be over in less than five minutes.

Try to stay calm, and don't call the police until we get there." Liz hung up the phone and paced. She asked herself, who would take him and why? Could it be Coleman? No .... What about Stansfield? Michael had  said it himself. If the story were to get out, the CIA would be shut down immediately. Liz looked at the phone again and hesitated for only a second. She called information, got the general number for the CIA, and hit the connect button. A man answered on the third ring and Liz said, "Director Stansfield, please." The operator remained professional despite the fact that someone was calling the Agency's general number on a Saturday evening and asking to talk to the director. "The director isn't in right now. May I take a message?"

"Yes. I assume you have a way to get ahold of him in an emergency?"

There was a pause, then a hesitant, "Yes, if the message warrants it."

"Believe me it does! Tell him Liz Scarlatti from the Washington Reader wants to talk about the events surrounding Arthur Higgins, Mike Nance, Stu Garret, and Congressman Michael O'Rourke. Give him that message immediately, and have him call me back at the following number in the next five minutes, or I'm going to press with what I have." Liz gave the man Michael's number and hung up. The day had been long, and it was time to go home and get some sleep. Kennedy and Stansfield exited the director's office, and the door automatically locked behind them.

Stansfield transferred his briefcase from his right hand to his left  and went to shake Kennedy's hand. Before he could complete the gesture, his bodyguard approached from behind a desk in the reception area with a deeply concerned look on his face. "Sir, I just received a strange call from our operator." The man looked down at a piece of paper. "A Liz Scarlatti from the Washington Reader called. She would like to ask you about the relationship between Arthur Higgins, Mike Nance, Stu Garret, and Michael O'Rourke. She left a number and said if she doesn't hear from you in five minutes, she's going to press with what she has."

Stansfield's tired shoulders slumped another several inches as he reached for the paper. Without saying a word, he turned to go back to his office and Kennedy followed. Stansfield dropped his briefcase and  his jacket on the nearest chair and walked behind his desk. "How in the hell could this get out so fast?" asked Kennedy. Stansfield shook his head. "It's either O'Rourke or the White House." He set the piece of paper down and pointed to a second phone on the credenza. "If you would please, Irene. Call down to Charlie and have him run a trace on this call." Stansfield began dialing the number. The startling ring of the phone caused Liz to jump.

She snatched the phone off the wall and said, "Hello."

"Miss Scarlatti?" asked Stansfield. "Yes, this is she."

"This is Director Stansfield. I just received your message, and I'm a little confused." Liz clutched the phone tightly and tried to stay calm.

"I know everything. I know all about how Higgins and Nance and Garret were behind the-" Stansfield cut her off. "We don't need to get into specifics, Miss Scarlatti. Where are you calling from?" Stansfield had no desire to discuss this issue on an open line. "What does that matter?" Liz heard a click at the front door and her heart leapt. She looked down the hall hoping to see Michael, but instead Tim and Seamus came through the door. "I need to know if you're on a secure line," said Stansfield. Liz looked at the phone and said, "I doubt it, and I really don't care." Tim and Seamus entered the kitchen and listened to Liz talk. "Congressman Michael O'Rourke is missing from his house, and if he isn't returned within the next hour, I am going to wire every news service on the planet the real story about what has been going on in Washington over the last week." Seamus's eyes opened wide.

"Who are you talking to?" Liz turned her back on Seamus and Tim and covered her other ear. "Hold on a minute," continued Stansfield. "How do you know Congressman O'Rourke is missing?"

"I'm standing in his kitchen with his brother and grandfather," shouted Liz. "He is gone, and if you don't return him within the hour, your little secret is going to be on the front page of every paper tomorrow morning."

"I have no idea where Congressman O'Rourke is," protested Stansfield.

"Well, you'd better find him. You have one hour." Liz slammed the phone back into its cradle.

Stansfield stared at the receiver and shook his head. Kennedy pressed a button and spoke briefly into the phone. When she was done, she looked at her boss and said, "The call was made from O'Rourke's house."

Stansfield pinched the bridge of his nose. "It has to be Nance and Garret." Stansfield slowly shook his head from side to side as he continued to keep pressure on his nose. "What in the hell are those two idiots up to?"

"Any chance the call was a fake?" asked Kennedy. "I doubt it."

Stansfield looked at Kennedy and grabbed his phone. "I'm going to call the President and find out if he knows where his chief of staff and national security adviser are." Stansfield punched in the number for the Secret Service command post at the White House. After several rings an agent answered and Stansfield identified himself. "I need to  speak to the President immediately." Stansfield tapped a pen on a pad of paper while he waited to be connected. After several clicks the President answered. "Thomas, what's wrong?"

"We seem to have a problem, sir."