Term Limits

chapter Twenty-Seven
Stansfield relayed the pertinent facts of his conversation with Scarlatti, but referred to her only as a reporter. The President let out a loud sigh and said, "For Christ sake . .. why would anyone want to take O'Rourke?" Stansfield did not respond. He instead chose to put the pressure on the President and see just how genuine his reaction was. "I can't believe this. I thought this mess was over. Who would take him?" repeated an exasperated Stevens. "We're not sure."

"Thomas, you have my authority to do whatever it takes to get Congressman O'Rourke back, and make sure that tape isn't released!"

Stansfield paused for a moment and then asked, "Sir, do you know where your national security adviser and chief of staff are?" President Stevens didn't answer immediately. The connection between O'Rourke's disappearance and Stansfield's question was obvious. "No, but I'm sure as hell going to find out! I'll call you back!" The President slammed the phone down and screamed for the nearest Secret Service agent.

Stansfield put the phone down and tried to gauge the President's reaction. Stevens seemed genuinely surprised, and there was no need for him to take a chance . . . unless Nance had threatened to drag him down.

Stansfield pondered the possibility and decided that until he knew more, he couldn't trust the President. He picked up the phone and dialed Charlie Dobbs's extension in the Operations Center.

Dobbs answered on the first ring, and Stansfield spoke rapidly. "What type of bird do we have over the city right now?" Dobbs hit several buttons on the keyboard to his left, and instantly a map appeared on the screen that marked the orbital path and location of every satellite in the CIA, the National Reconnaissance Office, and the National Security Agency arsenal. "We currently have"-Dobbs squinted to read the designation that appeared next to the dot hovering above Washington, D.C.--"a KH-11 on station." The KH-11 Strategic Response Reconnaissance Satellite could tell the difference between a football and a basketball from a distance of 220 miles above the earth. "Zoom it in on Mike Nance's ranch in Maryland, and punch up all the addresses for NSA safe houses in the metro area."

"Thomas, the people over at the NSA are going to shit when they find out we're using a big bird to keep an eye on the President's national security adviser."

"If they ask, tell them the President authorized it. How long before you have real-time imaging?"

"It should take no more than three to five minutes."

"Good. I also want two tactical teams ready to roll ASAP. Get the choppers warmed up. We might have to move fast."

"Do you want them in combat gear or plainclothes?" Stansfield pondered the question. Because the CIA had no domestic jurisdiction, they weren't able to deploy their tactical teams in the same fashion that the FBI deployed their SWAT teams. Most of their work had to be done in a way that raised the least amount of attention possible. "Put one team in plainclothes and the other one in full combat gear."

"I'll take care of it. What's going on, Thomas?"

"More fallout from Arthur. Call me as soon as you get the imaging of Nance's ranch." Stansfield put the phone down, no longer tired. The anger that he felt toward Mike Nance had overwhelmed any feelings of exhaustion he had. Nance had been given more than enough chances. If he wanted to continue to play it rough and risky, it was time to end the game-before he could do any more damage. When Liz got off the phone, Seamus forced her to calm down and tell them what had happened.

After she was done, they inspected the broken table. Given the evidence, they had to agree with Liz that things did not look good.

Seamus looked at the broken table and then Liz. "Michael told you everything?"

"Yes."

Seamus tried to read deeper into her curt answer. He could sense nothing-no judgment, or animosity. Seamus folded his arms and returned his thoughts to Michael. "I don't think it's the CIA, or the FBI.

They were with him this afternoon. They could have done it then if they wanted to."

"What if they wanted to wait until it was dark?" asked Liz.

Seamus shook his head. "Why take the risk? They could have called him tomorrow and had him come out to Langley on his own. They didn't need to forcibly take him and raise suspicion. If you had called the cops and told them your boyfriend, who just happens to be a Congressman, was missing and it looked like he was taken..." Seamus rolled his eyes.

"Every law enforcement officer in D.C. would be looking for him. No way." Seamus shook his head. "Stansfield wouldn't risk that exposure.

Plus you have to factor in the threat of the tape being released. It has to be Nance and Garret." Tim thought about it for a moment.

"You're right. Something this desperate points towards them. Now the question is, where would they have taken him?" Seamus shrugged his shoulders.

"Hell, I have no idea. Nance has to have access to at least a dozen safe houses in metro area. They could have taken him anywhere."

Seamus looked at his watch. "We don't have a lot of time. We have to get him back before Nance has the chance to interrogate him. I'm going to let Coleman know what's going on. Tim, you stay here with Liz.

I'll call you as soon as I find something out." He grabbed Liz by the shoulders and said, "Don't worry, everything will be all right. If Stansfield calls, call me immediately on the car phone." The gray-haired O'Rourke turned and left.

Seamus jumped behind the wheel of Tim's Cherokee and pulled out into the street. When he was several blocks away, he turned on the mobile scramble phone. He gripped the steering wheel tightly as he turned onto Wisconsin Avenue. Seamus knew he needed to act fast or they might never get Michael back. Nance had already proved that he would kill, and if he was willing to risk everything in the face of the tape's being released, there was no telling what lengths he might go to.

Seamus tried to think ahead. How in the hell could they get Michael back? Whatever had happened, he needed to let Coleman know that Michael was missing. Seamus punched in the number for Coleman's pager.

It rang four times and then the computerized voice told him to leave a number at the beep. Seamus entered the number for his scramble phone and followed it with three more numbers. In their months of planning, Seamus had been insistent that he and Coleman maintain secure lines of communication. They had gone through almost every possible contingency, and the one they had prepared for the most was the possibility that one or more of the group would be put under surveillance. They had designed a system where they would alert each other through digital pagers. After all, Seamus couldn't just call Coleman with the FBI camped out on his front step.

After hanging up the phone Seamus swore under his breath. The possibility of losing Michael was more than he could bear. He forced himself to push the thought out of his mind. Now was not the time to get emotional. It was time to stay focused and find Michael. He silently chided himself for putting his grandson in harm's way. They had boxed Nance into a corner, and instead of calling it quits, he had come out swinging. SCOTT COLEMAN WAS SITTING ON HIS COUCH TRYING TO IGNORE THAT AN unknown number of FBI agents were watching and listening to his every move. For the last day he had been going over different plans for losing his watchers. Part of his training as a SEAL had been counter surveillance and aversive techniques. As the commander of SEAL Team Six he had been tailed more times than he could count. Foreign Intelligence services could learn a lot by keeping tabs on America's top commando. An even more dangerous scenario that he faced was the threat of reprisals by terrorists. Coleman had killed his fair share  of international outlaws over the last decade, and plenty of groups out there would love to get their hands on him. What better way to settle a score, if you're a terrorist, than to kill the leader of America's elite counterterrorist force? Even now that he was retired, things hadn't changed all that much. He was still under specific instructions to report any surveillance to the counterespionage people at the Naval Investigative Services. Coleman's pager started to vibrate. He glanced down at the small screen and recognized the number for Seamus's secure phone. After the seven-digit number came three more numbers.

These three numbers made Coleman deeply concerned. They told him that something was very wrong, and that they needed to talk immediately.

Coleman sat motionless for a half a minute or so while he pondered what his next step would be. After picking a plan, he turned off the TV and headed for the door, grabbing his keys and a dark leather jacket on the way. As he made the trip to the basement, he began guessing what might have gone wrong. He knew of Michael's intention to use the tape, but beyond that he had no idea what had transpired over the last sixteen hours. Coleman reached the storage lockers in the basement and walked past his own, stopping at the one used by the elderly gentleman on the first floor. He pulled out a small black flashlight and inspected the wax seals that he had dripped onto the hinges. Both were intact. It took him less than a minute to pick the small lock. Once inside the closet, he moved a stack of boxes and grabbed his stainless-steel trunk. Coleman decided it was time to clean shop. No sense leaving anything behind for the feds to find. He set the trunk down in the hallway and then relocked the door to the storage locker. Next he bent down, opened the steel trunk, and retrieved a mobile scramble phone that was identical to the one O'Rourke had. He hoisted the tan briefcase under one arm, the trunk under the other, and started for the front door of the apartment building. Across the street, in the apartment building that faced Coleman's, Skip McMahon and the other FBI agents sprang to life. Coleman had left the house earlier in the day and gone for a jog, but other than that, he had remained in his apartment. McMahon was wearing a black Baltimore Orioles baseball hat and had a pair of large headphones covering his ears.

Through the array of directional microphones they had aimed at the apartment, he heard Coleman turn off his TV. Next he heard the jingle of keys and then the door opening and closing. McMahon snapped his walkie-talkie up to his mouth. "People, get ready. I think our boy is on the move." The other two agents joined McMahon at the window. One of them checked in with each of the three cars that were located on nearby side streets and asked for a status report. They waited a full minute and Coleman still hadn't exited the front door of the building.

McMahon brought the walkie-talkie back up to his mouth. "Sam, do you see anything in the alley? Over." The agent parked at the end of the alley peered through a pair of night-vision goggles. His eyes hadn't left the rear door since McMahon had alerted them that their subject was on the move. Sam spoke blandly into his walkie-talkie, "That's a negative, over." McMahon tapped his foot. "Come on, where are you?"

He adjusted his baseball hat and continued to stare at the front door.

"Come . . .

on... come...on." As McMahon finished dragging out his last phrase, Coleman came out the front door. "We've got him," he said instantaneously over his radio. Squinting slightly, he continued, "He's carrying a briefcase and another large metal case .... He's headed for his car. Get the cars warmed up and alert dispatch."

McMahon watched Coleman get into his Ford Explorer and shut the door.

He slapped one of the agents on the shoulder and said, "Watch the fort while we're gone, and tell dispatch we might need a chopper. Let's go, Pete." McMahon and the other agent ran for the door. They flew down the back staircase and out into the alley. McMahon jumped into the passenger seat of Special Agent Pete Arley's Chrysler minivan, complete with child seat and a box of wet wipes on the dashboard. Arley yanked the van into drive and roared down the alley as McMahon helped coordinate the other three cars in the immediate area. The caravan of cars moved from the Adams Morgan neighborhood into the area surrounding Howard University. Coleman's Ford Explorer was covered in every direction including up. An FBI surveillance helicopter had moved into position and had already painted the roof of Coleman's truck with a laser dot. The group of cars turned onto Michigan Avenue and passed Trinity College and the Veterans Administration Hospital. Coleman knew what he was doing. By driving past the college campuses he was picking off the FBI cars that were trying to keep pace with him on the side streets. Michigan Avenue was the only thoroughfare in this part of town. All of the other streets dead-ended into one of the campuses.

He was not trying to lose them yet. He was only trying to make their job difficult. The former SEAL retrieved a small, handheld bug sweeper from his pocket and checked to make sure the audio warning mode was off. He started by the steering wheel and swept the entire dashboard of the car. From there he swept as much of the car as he could from the front seat. Coleman put the sensor back in his pocket and readied his scramble phone. Next he turned up the radio and faded the speakers to the back of the truck. If any bugs had been placed in the backseat or rear cargo area, the loud music would render them useless. Coleman checked his rearview mirror one more time and then dialed the number.

After several rings Seamus answered, "Hello."

"What's up?"

"Michael has been taken."

"What do you mean taken? By whom?"

"We don't know, but we think it may have been Nance." Coleman swore under his breath. "Did Michael use the tape to blackmail Nance?"

"Yes."

"Damn it. I've been out of the loop since last night. I think you'd better bring me up to speed on what's transpired since then." Coleman listened while Seamus rapidly relayed an extremely abbreviated version of what Michael had done with the tape of Arthur's confession. Seamus then went on to explain Michael's disappearance, Liz's subsequent conversation with Stansfield, and finally, the one-hour time limit and ultimatum she had given the director of the CIA. Coleman processed the information as rapidly as possible and asked few questions. When Seamus was nearing the end of the story, Coleman looked at his watch and saw that they were coming up on the two-minute mark. Although these little wonders of technology that he and Seamus were using were touted as trace proof, Coleman had learned over the years to trust no piece of technology completely. Not wanting to go over the two-minute threshold, Coleman asked for the number Seamus had been using to contact Stansfield, then told him he'd call him back in ten minutes.

Coleman hung up the phone and checked his rearview mirror for any recognizable cars. He bit down hard and began running through his options. If they didn't get Michael back quickly, they were in a lot of trouble. Nance had to be dealt with.

In a barely audible voice Coleman said, "If I get the chance, I'm going to end this thing my way." The maroon Audi stopped at the security gate and a pair of watchful eyes peered down at the driver from behind the bulletproof glass of the guard booth. The guard had been notified by his employer that this certain guest was to be allowed entry without inspection. Mike Nance had learned a lot from Arthur Higgins over the years, and one of these lessons was to hire his own private security people. The Secret Service would more than likely disapprove of some of his activities, and tonight was a perfect example. The heavy gate began to slide back on its tracks, and the guard nodded for the driver of the car to proceed. The Audi sped down the long, newly paved driveway and took the right fork about a quarter of a mile from the house. Jarod pulled the car up to the main entrance and popped the trunk. Leaving the keys in the ignition, he exited the car and walked to the rear. Jarod lifted the trunk and studied O'Rourke, who was curled up in the fetal position. The Congressman looked through squinted eyes at the strange man who had abducted him. Although he felt sluggish, the drugs had not affected his mind. The thirty-minute car ride in the darkness of the trunk had given him time to figure out, with relative certainty, what was happening. Only one person could be behind this. Garret was too big of an emotional wimp to have the balls to do something like this by himself, so it had to be Nance. Michael knew his only hope was if Liz had made it back to the house and called Tim and Seamus. If she hadn't, Michael had no doubt that Nance would shoot him full of drugs and get him to sing, just as he and Coleman had done with Arthur. He had to buy some time until they found him. The grandfatherly-looking man was silhouetted by a pair of lights that hung next to the entrance of the house. He pulled a medium-sized, matte black combat knife from inside his trench coat and leaned into the trunk. The knife slid in between O'Rourke's legs, and with a quick jerk the plastic ankle cuffs were cut.

The man transferred the blade from his right to his left hand and helped Michael out of the trunk. O'Rourke felt the increased effects of whatever had been pumped into him as soon as his feet hit the pavement.

His legs were unsteady, and he staggered slightly to the side. Jarod hung on to him by the arm and prevented him from toppling to the ground.

The two of them proceeded toward the front door, and after about five steps Michael regained enough of his balance that he could walk without assistance. When they reached the house, the door opened from the inside, revealing a grinning Mike Nance. "Good evening, gentlemen."

Nance was wearing a pair of dark wool slacks, a white button-down, and a blue cardigan. O'Rourke stared at the smug grin on Nance's face and fought back the urge to reach out and smash in his face. He took a step forward, but the stranger holding on to his arm prevented him from taking another. O'Rourke froze as Jarod dug two fingers into the pressure point under his right arm. Michael's whole right side buckled under the penetrating pain, and he slouched in a convulsive jerk.

"Now, now, Congressman, behave yourself." Nance waved his finger at O'Rourke as if Michael were a little schoolboy. "You don't want to upset my friend." Nance nodded for the two men to follow and started down the hallway. Jarod loosened his grip slightly and prodded Michael forward.

The three men went down the hall and entered the large game room.

O'Rourke looked to his right and saw Stu Garret standing behind the bar with a drink in his hand. O'Rourke glared at the President's chief of staff, and Garret averted his eyes. Nance pointed toward Michael's mouth and said, "Jarod, you can take off the tape." The shorter man reached up and yanked the gray duct tape off O'Rourke's mouth. Michael ignored the slight sting and kept his eyes fixed on Garret. Nance spoke from a discreetly safe distance. "Congressman, we have some unfinished busness from this morning." O'Rourke stared at Nance in disgust and said, "I finished my business with you when I broke your nose." Nance turned and looked at his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. He reached up and gently touched his swollen nose. "Yes, I suppose I owe you for that, don't I?" Turning back to face O'Rourke, Nance said flatly, "Jarod, would you please break Congressman O'Rourke's nose for me?" Michael had no time to react. The man standing next to him grabbed his handcuffed wrists and forced them down. Jarod's free hand raised up like a tomahawk and came crashing down in a karate chop across the bridge of Michael's nose. There was a loud pop as O'Rourke's nose moved a quarter of an inch to the left.

Michael stumbled back, his head reeling. O'Rourke had had his nose broken twice before while playing hockey in college, but he never remembered it hurting this bad. He gritted his teeth in an attempt to try to fight back the pain as blood streamed out of his nostrils and over his upper lip. Nance walked back over from the bar and proclaimed, "I don't like resorting to violence, Mr. O'Rourke, but I do believe in an eye for an eye. Your behavior this morning was very uncivilized."

"And I suppose killing Erik Olson was civilized. Spare me your bullshit." Michael wiped some blood on the sleeve of his gray sweatshirt. Nance nodded to Jarod, and before Michael could react, a fist slammed into his lower back, sending him crashing to the floor.

Grimacing from the agonizing pain in his right kidney, O'Rourke pushed himself up onto his knees and looked at Nance's shoes. Michael had never been one to take things lying down, and he reasoned the longer he kept them from asking some real questions, the better his chances were.

Slowly, he brought his head up. His eyes rested on Nance's white shirt.

O'Rourke felt his mouth filling with blood, and as he got to his feet, he spit it at Nance. A large glob of blood and saliva splattered Nance's face and white shirt. O'Rourke had less than a second to enjoy his small victory. He was instantly knocked to his knees by another punch to the kidney. Nance, infuriated by the indignity of being spat on, stepped forward and slapped Michael across the face. The slap barely moved Michael's head. O'Rourke paused to gain his breath and then looked up at Nance. Through clenched teeth, he forced a smile to his lips and asked, "Who taught you how to hit like that, your mom?"

Nance's complexion turned a shade darker and his hands started to tremble as he fought to control his anger. In a half yell, he barked, "Jarod, teach this man some respect!" O'Rourke knew more pain was on the way so he rolled from his knees to the floor and away from his assailant. When he completed the turn and stopped by the back of a couch five feet away, he looked up and saw Jarod approaching with his stun gun extended. Michael saw something pop from the end, and then every inch of his body spasmed as electricity shot through his veins.

While he squirmed on the floor, he felt himself losing consciousness.

His vision sparkled and then went dark. The last thing he remembered before losing consciousness was the faint ringing of a phone.

Stansfield paced behind his desk while Kennedy relayed possible action scenarios one after another. This was one of Irene's strong suits.

She was a master at taking problems, plugging in different variables, and predicting probable outcomes. The Operations Center in the basement was humming like the bridge of an aircraft carrier headed into battle. Charlie Dobbs looked down at the floor from his crow's nest and watched his people move with speed and precision. He was wearing a headset and pressed the speed dial for Stansfield's office. The director answered and Dobbs said, "The choppers are warmed up and the  tactical teams are ready to roll. We also have the real-time thermalimaging on-line."

"What do you see?" Dobbs looked at the high-resolution, fifty-inch screen that was mounted in the wall behind his desk. "The only thing to report is the arrival of a car. Otherwise everything looks pretty quiet."

"What kind of car?" asked Stansfield.

"It's hard to tell with the thermal imaging, but it looks to be a sedan of some type. A couple of my imaging analysts are running computer enhancements on the stuff right now. They should be able to tell us more in about ten minutes. The car arrived just after we came online.

One person got out. They retrieved something from the trunk and went into the house." Stansfield's eyelids tightened. "Did you say the trunk?"

"Yeah."

"What did they get from the trunk?"

"I don't know."

"How big was it?" Dobbs sighed apologetically. "Thomas, we can't tell with the nighttime thermal imaging on the KH-11. If it was daytime, I'd know more, or if it was one of the new KH-12s, we'd have no problem, but the thermal imaging has a lower resolution."

"Get your boys on it right away! Tell them to forget about the make of the car for now. I want to know how big the object was that was taken from the trunk, and let me know if anybody else arrives or leaves the ranch. I'm going with the tactical teams. Give the pilots the location of Nance's place and tell the men to load up. I'm on my way down."

Stansfield hung up and looked at Kennedy. "I want you to stay here and coordinate. If Scarlatti calls, give her the number for my mobile phone and have her call me directly."

"Are you going out to Nance's?"

"Yes. I'm going to handle this thing personally." Stansfield exited his office and told his bodyguard to grab the mobile phone and follow him.

Stansfield slid his access card into the slot for the executive elevator and watched as his bodyguard strapped a black nylon pack around his waist that contained the director's secure mobile phone.

There was a knock on the door and all three men turned their attention from the body on the floor to the entrance of the room. The voice of Nance's assistant called out from behind the oak door. "Sir, the President is on the line and would like to speak to you." Nance scowled at the door. "Tell him I'm not available and that I'll call him back." The assistant cleared his throat. "He was rather insistent that he speak with you immediately .... In fact he seemed a bit irate."

Nance pointed at O'Rourke, who was still passed out on the floor.

"Jarod, keep him quiet. I'll be right back." As Nance started for the door, Garret followed. Nance stopped abruptly. "Wait here, Stu. I can handle this on my own." Nance left the room and went to his private study. He pushed the blinking light on the phone and said, "I'm sorry to keep you waiting, Jim. What is it that you wanted?" The President screamed into the phone, "What in the hell are you up to now?"

"Jim, I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Don't pull this crap with me, Mike. Where in the hell is Congressman O'Rourke?"

"Why would I know where Congressman O'Rourke is?"

"Someone has taken him, and it's no shock that you're at the top of the list for potential kidnappers."

"Who told you he was taken?"

"Stansfield!" Nance was quiet for a moment. "As I have maintained since this morning, I think Thomas Stansfield is behind this entire affair. I have -" "Shut up, Mike!" yelled the President. "I can't believe you've gotten me into this mess. I saw the way Stu fell apart when he heard that tape.

You're not going to get away with blaming this thing on anybody but yourself. You and your sadistic friend Arthur were behind this whole thing, and I'm not going to get dragged down with you. A reporter called Stansfield and told him if O'Rourke isn't turned over in an hour, they're going to release the tape of Arthur. Now wake up before it's too late, and tell me where in the hell Congressman O'Rourke is."

"I have no idea."

"Bullshit... you're a goddamned professional liar, Mike. Hand him over before you ruin all of us."

"All of us is right, Jim." Nance's words were laced with blatant disrespect. "If that tape is released, all of us are going down, and that includes you. We're all in this together, and we're going to do it my way. You stall Stansfield. If they want the good Congressman back so bad, he must know something. When I'm done with him, I'll turn him over." Nance slammed the phone down and left for the other end of the house. DIRECTOR STANSFIELD AND HIS BODYGUARD WALKED out the REAR EXIT of the main building at Langley and toward the waiting helicopters. The chopper to the right was a modified Sikorsky UH-60 Black Hawk with state-of-the-art noise-suppression equipment mounted over its powerful engines. The dark bird could fly at speeds up to eighty miles an hour and be no louder than a car. The Black Hawk was loaded with eight fully armed SOGS, members of the CIA's Special Operations Group. They were dressed in black Nomex jumpsuits and black tactical assault vests. The majority of the men were former Recon Marines and Army Airborne Rangers.

Each man also wore a dull black Delta Force helmet and body armor made of spectra, a bulletproof composite. The helmets weighed only three pounds and were capable of stopping up to a .357 magnum round at close distance. Mounted on top of the helmets were pop-down night-vision goggles. All eight men carried silenced 9x19mm Heckler Koch MPO5 machine guns. Two of the eight also carried Remington short-barreled shotguns with special Shok-Lok rounds for blasting through hinges and door locks. If the shotguns weren't enough, they also carried shaped plastic explosives for blasting through reinforced doors. One man also carried a Remington custom sniper rifle. The chopper that Stansfield approached was blue and silver with the word MEDEVAC painted in white letters over both sliding doors. This helicopter contained the eight members of the second tactical team. They were armed identically to the team in the Black Hawk minus the black Nomex jumpsuits and Delta Force helmets. This group was dressed in plainclothes. Four of them wore suits and trench coats, two were in jeans and leather jackets, and the seventh and eighth were a man and woman set up to look like a husband and wife.

All eight carried their weapons concealed in large Velcro pockets on the inside of their .jackets. The director climbed into the front seat next to the pilot, and his bodyguard got in back with the troops.

Stansfield nodded to the pilot, and the helicopter lifted off the ground and headed east with the dark Black Hawk close behind. The men and one woman in the back of the medevac chopper shot each other sideways looks. It wasn't often that the director came along for something like this. Stansfield looked to his right as the two helicopters raced over the northern part of downtown at close to 150 mph. His bodyguard tapped him on the shoulder and handed his boss the phone. "It's the President." Stansfield grabbed the receiver and covered his other ear. Even though the helicopter was insulated for noise, it was still loud. "Yes, sir."

"Thomas, I've lost control of him" The President sounded desperate.

"Who, sir?"

"Mike Nance. I just spoke with him. He said if the assassins want O'Rourke back so bad, the Congressman must know something."

"Is he at his ranch?"

"Yes."

"I'll handle it from here." Stansfield handed the phone back to his bodyguard and stared straight ahead toward a dark Maryland countryside.

His nerves were flayed, he was tired, and he couldn't remember the last time he'd been this angry. It was time to put Mike Nance in his place.

Coleman, with the FBI in tow, continued his weaving pattern through the run-down Langdon neighborhood of Washington, D.C. Although Langdon was less than a mile from the Capitol, it was one of the worst neighborhoods in Washington. Row after row of burnt-out and abandoned houses dominated the landscape, making perfect offices for the gang-banger crack dealers who ruled the streets. Coleman wondered what his FBI watchers were thinking as they followed him into this war zone.

The former SEAL activated the voice modulator on his scramble phone and punched in the number for Langley. The operator connected him to Stansfield's office after a brief argument. Kennedy answered the director's phone and, upon hearing the altered voice, started an immediate trace. "Who is this?" asked Kennedy. "The person who took Arthur. Where is Stansfield?"

"He's not in right now." Kennedy looked down at the phone and wondered if it was the former SEAL team commander on the other end. "I need to speak with him immediately!" Kennedy looked at her watch. "If you'll hold for a minute, I'll see if I can track him down."

"No!" screamed Coleman. "Give me a number where I can reach him immediately, or I release the tape." Kennedy considered her options for a second and decided to give him the number. When she was done, she hit the extension for the operations center. Charlie Dobbs answered and Kennedy asked, "Did you get a trace?"

"Not even close. Whoever it was, they were using a mobile unit."

"Can you get him if he calls back?"

"If he stays on long enough, but I doubt he's that dumb."

"All right, thanks." Kennedy placed the phone down and again wondered if it was Coleman. Cross town, Coleman hit the disconnect button and dialed the number Kennedy had just given him. Someone answered on the other end, and Coleman asked for Stansfield. A moment later the director was on the line and Coleman asked, "Where in the hell is O'Rourke?"

"Who is this?"

Stansfield was put on guard by the metallic voice. "The person who has twenty copies of a tape that will close the doors to the CIA for good.

I'm only going to ask this question one more time. Where is Congressman O'Rourke?"

"I'm in the process of trying to find him right now." Coleman could tell by the quality of the connection that Stansfield was mobile.

"Where are you?" Stansfield hesitated briefly. "I'm airborne."

"Where are you headed?"

"Maryland."

"What's in Maryland?" Coleman took a right on South Dakota Avenue and headed for Highway 50. "The President's national security adviser."

"Does he have the Congressman?"

"We're not sure, but I'm going to find out."

"Where does Nance live?"

"Arundel County, just off of 214." Coleman knew the area. Nance's house wasn't far from Annapolis. "You'd better hope you find the Congressman quick.

Nance has worn my patience thin." Coleman disconnected the call and floored the accelerator as he turned onto the on ramp for Highway 50 east. He wanted to be there for the exchange of Michael, but there was one big problem-he had to lose the FBI first. In his sixteen years in the Navy, Coleman had learned two fundamental theories about shaking surveillance. The first is to enter an area of high traffic and lose the watchers in the crowd, and the second is to go to a place where they can't follow. Coleman grinned. The second theory would work perfectly.

He swerved into the left lane and passed several cars as he accelerated over 70 mph. He disengaged the voice modulator switch on the phone and dialed the main number for the Naval Academy. When the operator answered, Coleman asked for his old friend Sam Jarvi. Skip McMahon peered out the front window of the minivan with a pair of binoculars.