Term Limits

chapter Eight
"What leads you to believe the letter is not what it appears to be?"

"Well, the FBI is very suspicious of the timing of these murders."

"Why?" Basset hesitated for a moment. "They are uncertain that the murders were committed solely for the reasons stated in the letter."

The host became visibly excited as he asked his next question. "What facts have they discovered to back this up?"

"The FBI is being very tight-lipped about this, as I'm sure you can understand. All I know right now is that they have received some information that has led them to believe the murders were committed for reasons other than those stated in the letter."

Roach looked at the TV and shook his head. "What in the hell are these guys up to?"

The host continued, "What type of information?" Basset frowned. "I can't go into it right now." One of the other reporters jumped in. "If you can't tell us what the FBI has learned, can you tell us what they are speculating the real motive to be?" Basset shifted uneasily in his seat. Garret and the President had briefed him on the plan. He found the possibility of the murders being committed for the purpose of toppling the Stevens administration and the party to be plausible. At this point, in this town, anything could be possible. What he felt uncomfortable doing was intentionally lying about what the FBI believed to be the reason for the murders. But Basset had learned long ago not to probe too deep. It was easier on his conscience to ponder his actions lightly. With no visible guilt or awkwardness Basset uttered his preplanned response. "The FBI thinks the murders were committed to try and stop the President's budget from being passed."

Roach tried to stay calm as he pinched the bridge of his nose tighter and tighter. The program broke away for a commercial and he turned off the TV. As he walked to the door, he asked himself once again, "What in the hell are they up to?"

Eleven miles away, Michael O'Rourke sat in his living room with Liz and Seamus. Seamus had arrived earlier that morning. Michael and Seamus watched the broadcast with irritation while Liz was busy pecking notes into her laptop. She had a column that was supposed to be on her editor's desk by 5 P.M. The program came back on the air, and the one woman on the panel started to ask questions. "Mr. Speaker, I know this must be a very difficult time for you and your colleagues, and I would not for a moment want you to think that I am condoning these murders, but the assassinations have thrust into the spotlight some reforms that the American people have endorsed for quite some time. The idea of term limits has an approval rating of almost ninety percent, and a balanced-budget amendment has an approval rating of close to eighty percent. Everyone agrees the national debt needs to be reduced and this letter brings up a point that no one in Washington is willing to address, and that is, cuts in Social Security and Medicare. It is a horrible tragedy that three of our country's elder statesmen have been assassinated, but maybe some good can come of it, if it forces you and the rest of your colleagues to make some overdue and needed reforms." Basset took a deep breath.

They had anticipated a question along these lines, and Garret had helped prepare an answer.

Basset paused for a moment and stared at the reporter. "I would like you to try and tell the wives, children, and grandchildren of those three men what good could possibly come from this." Basset shook his head in a disgusted manner. "Mr. Speaker, I am not saying that this isn't a horrible tragedy for the families of these men. What I am asking is, what is it going to take for the leaders of this country to implement the reforms that the American people want? I mean, if these horrible murders are not going to move you to action, what will?"

"We do not even know if these demands are sincere. As I have told you, the FBI believes the intent of that letter to be bogus. and besides, I resent the fact that we have not even had time to bury these honorable men, and you are talking about kowtowing to the demands of their murderers."

"Mr. Speaker, I am not talking about kowtowing to anyone. I am only asking if you plan to implement certain reforms that the American people want."

"I can answer absolutely and emphatically, no! The government of the United States of America has never, and will never, negotiate with terrorists."

"No one is asking you to negotiate with terrorists, Mr. Speaker. We are talking about making several simple, long-overdue reforms." Basset started to shake his head back and forth. "The key word in that sentence was simple. Running this country is a very complex and difficult task. A couple of 'simple reforms' as you phrased it will not even solve some of the minor problems our country has." Basset turned to the host. "And I would like to add, things are not as dire as some would lead us to think. The President has been doing a fine job. The economy is strong, and we have been reporting smaller budget deficits than the previous administration." The reporter was not to be deterred by simple political rhetoric. "So you plan on doing nothing, Mr. Speaker?"

"No. I plan on bringing the House back into session as soon as we are done paying respect to our fallen colleagues, and then we will pass the President's budget. A budget that, I might add, the American people want."

O'Rourke got off the couch and tossed the remote control on Liz's lap. "What's it going to take for these guys to learn? Seamus, do you want to go for a walk?" Michael's grandfather nodded and got out of his chair. Michael left the room and appeared in the doorway a moment later with two coats and Duke's leash. He handed one of the coats to Seamus and bent down to snap the leash onto Duke's collar. He stood and looked over at Liz, who was focused on the TV. "Honey, we'll be back in an hour or so." Without looking up, she replied, "I'll be here. You two have a nice time."

Michael watched her diligently type away while she stayed focused on the program. Walking behind the couch, he bent over and kissed her on the cheek. "Don't pull any punches, honey." Scarlatti smiled and said, "I never do."

"That's why you're my favorite journalist."

"I hope that's not the only reason." Seamus grinned at Michael and the two of them, along with Duke, left the house. When they reached the sidewalk, Seamus said, "You two seem very happy."

"We are. If it wasn't for our jobs, I would have probably asked her to marry me by now." The stoic Seamus said, "Well, you have my approval."

As an afterthought he added, "If it matters."

Michael wrapped an arm around his grandfather and with a big grin said, "You're damn right it does." Duke began sniffing everything in their path, zigzagging back and forth across the sidewalk. Michael looked over his shoulder and said, "There's something we really need to talk about.

"Does it have anything to do with what you mentioned on the phone the other day?"

"Yes. Remember the hunting trip we went on last year with-" Seamus raised his hand and cut Michael off. "Don't mention any names."

Seamus looked up and down the street. Washington gave him the creeps.

"With all of these damn embassies around here, the FBI, the CIA, the NSA, and all of the defense intelligence agencies, it's a wonder any conversation takes place in this town without being recorded." Michael nodded. you know who I'm talking about."

The younger of the two O'Rourkes lowered his voice. "On that trip I gave him some highly sensitive information about a Senator who cost the lives of half the men in his unit."

"I remember." Michael paused and said, "I think that he might be involved in these assassinations. "And?" Seamus shrugged his shoulders with indifference. "You don't think it's a big deal?"

Seamus retrieved his pipe from his jacket. "Yes, I think it's a big deal." He packed some tobacco in the bowl and sucked a flame down into it.

Exhaling a cloud of smoke, he said, "Michael, partisan politics has always existed in this country and it always will. In a way it's healthy. The parties act as another check and balance. They pulled the same crap when I was your age; the only difference was, when push came to shove, they were responsible enough to balance the budget. The problem today is that men like Koslowski, Fitzgerald, and Downs... the old guard . . . they control the system. All of this shit went down on their watch, and they did nothing to prevent it. In fact they resisted commonsense change at every turn. They are the reason we are five trillion dollars in debt, and I couldn't be happier that they are dead."

Michael gave Duke's leash a slight yank to get him to slow down. "I'm not sad they're dead either. I've seen up close and personal the way they do business, and I couldn't be happier that they're gone. My problem is that I'm not entirely comfortable with the idea that I may have set this whole thing in motion by relaying a highly classified piece of information that I wasn't even supposed to know."

Seamus waited for another walker to pass before he gave his answer. "We went over this before you told him. You commanded a recon unit when you were in the Corps. If some little silver-spoon millionaire politician compromised a mission that you and your men were on because he had had one too many martinis . . . and his loose lips lead to the deaths of half of your unit, would you want to know?"

Michael sighed deeply and said, "Yes."

"That's all the farther you need to look, Michael." Seamus took several more puffs off his pipe while they walked. "Have you talked to anyone else about this?"

"No."

"Not even Liz?"

"No."

"Good. Keep it under your hat. If our boy is behind this, we're fortunate. This is the first chance we've had for real change in thirty years."

"I agree. It's just that something like this could spin out of control real fast, and I don't want to see him get taken down."

"Don't worry. He isn't going to get caught. He's been doing this for years, in places a hell of a lot more dangerous than the United States."

Director Thomas Stansfield sat in his office with only his desk lamp on.

Outside the window of his corner office, powerful floodlights illuminated the formidable compound of the Central Intelligence Agency.

Three years ago he would never have been found in the office on a Sunday night. He would have been sitting at home with his wife.

Stansfield's demanding job required him to work some long and strange hours, but Sunday evenings had been the one night of the week, barring an international crisis, when he would drop everything to be at home.

He and his wife would typically watch 60 Minutes while making dinner, maybe relax in front of a fire, watch a movie, and then call the girls out on the West Coast. They had two daughters, both married, one living in Sacramento and the other in San Diego. This calm, comforting, and loving part of Thomas Stansfield's existence had vanished with little notice.

Sara Stansfield had left his life too quickly. During a routine physical, a tumor had been discovered. When the doctors went in to take it out, they found that the cancer had already spread to several glands.

Two months later, Sara was dead. It had been the most painful two months of Stansfield's life.

That he worked in a profession where emotions were looked on as a liability-a profession where tough-minded and emotionally neutral people played a serious game-did not help things. When Sara died, Stansfield had been the Agency's director for just over a year. Just when he'd reached the top of his profession, he'd lost the most important person in his life. Those who were close to him offered their private condolences, and they were appreciated. Some offered to help with the workload until he was up to it, but Stansfield had kindly refused.

After Sara's funeral, he spent several days with his daughters and three grandchildren, reminiscing about his beautiful wife and their loving mother and grandmother. The sons-in-law respected the feelings of a very private man and kept their distance. When the weekend was over, he put his loved ones on a plane and went back to work. Even three years later, Sara was often on his mind. The pain was gone and had been replaced by fond memories, hard work, and trips to see his daughters and grandchildren. Stansfield was a first in the history of CIA directors.

He had no military experience, he was not a lawyer or a politician, and he was not Ivy League educated. Stansfield had entered the Agency during the mid-fifties, after graduating from the University of South Dakota. He had something the Agency was searching for desperately-he was fluent in three languages: English, German, and Russian. Being  raised on a farm in rural South Dakota during the pre-television days gave his German-immigrant father and his Russian-immigrant mother plenty of time to teach their children the languages, customs, and folklore of their native lands. Stansfield had been one of the CIA's most productive agents during the fifties and sixties. In the seventies he became a case officer, in the early eighties he was the Agency's station chief in Moscow, and then in the late eighties he became the deputy director of operations. At the time, he thought he'd reached the end of the ladder.

That was until the previous President did something that surprised everyone. The CIA, at the time of the collapse of the Soviet Union, had grown to rely heavily on nonhuman data. They were spending most of their resources spying the high-tech way, with satellites and other electronic devices. The electronic information that the Agency collected was valuable, but nowhere near as valuable as a well-placed agent. During that President's second year, he was confronted with his first national-security crisis and was forced to face the harsh reality that his intelligence agencies could not give him the information he needed.

All of those billion dollar satellites and million-dollar spy planes could not tell him what he needed to know. What he needed was someone on the ground, someone on the inside. A spy. Following that incident, the President put together a task force and asked them to come up with a strategy for correcting this shortcoming. Stansfield was placed on the task force, which he thought was nothing more than a waste of time  and energy. After months of late meetings and lengthy debates, the task force briefed the President on its findings. They told him that America needed to increase its human intelligence-gathering apparatus on a global scale. They told him it would take a long-term commitment, and that it could be a minimum of six to ten years before they started to see any tangible results from their efforts. To Stansfield's amazement the President not only agreed, but decided that since the current director of the CIA was retiring shortly, it would make sense to have someone who understood the human side of the business running the Agency. Some people were upset that they had been passed over for the position, but most of them had no choice but to respect the decision.

Stansfield was an icon, a real-life spook. He had earned his spurs running around behind the Iron Curtain risking his life. He had risen through the ranks and put in his time. The phone on Stansfield's desk started to ring, and he looked over the top of his spectacles to see which line it was. The light blinking on the far right told him it was his private line. He grabbed the phone and said hello. Tom, Brian Roach here. Sorry to bother you on a Sunday night, but I need to run a couple of things by you." It wasn't unusual for Roach to be calling his counterpart at the CIA, but tonight he felt a little uncomfortable.

"No problem at all, Brian. I'm just trying to get a head start on the week.

What can I help you with?" After a prolonged pause, Roach said, Tom, I need to ask you a couple of questions, and if you don't want to answer them, please just tell me."

"Go right ahead."

"Tom, do you or does anyone at the Agency possess any information that would lead you to believe the murders were committed for reasons other than those stated in that letter?"

Stansfield's eyebrows frowned at the question. "Not that I know of."

"No one at the Agency has told the White House that they have discovered some information that suggests the motives of the killings were something other than those stated in that letter?" Roach asked again, more firmly.

"No, I thought you guys were the ones that came up with that theory." Roach breathed a long, frustrated sigh.

"No, we haven't told the white House anything."

"Then why are the President and all of his people running around town saying that you have?"

"That's what I would like to find out."

"It sounds like they're up to something." Stansfield leaned back in his chair and turned to look at a map of the world on his wall.

"Yeah, I've been getting the same feeling." Roach paused and took another deep breath. "Any advice?"

Stansfield thought about the question. He was normally careful about giving his opinion, but he and Roach were of the same cloth. He had a lot of empathy for his counterpart at the FBI. It might be Roach whom they were doing a job on this week, but it could easily be him next time. "I think it may be a good idea to drop a little hint to the media that you have no idea what the White House is talking about."

Roach pondered the advice for a moment. He liked the direct approach.

"Thanks, Tom, I appreciate the advice. If you hear of anything, please let me know."

"Will do." Stansfield set the phone back in its cradle and closed his eyes. Mike Nance and his associates made him nervous. Nance was the real brains over at the White House, the man with the connections.

Garret was sitting in his office with his feet up on the desk and an array of newspapers before him. It was just after six on Monday morning, and his plan was coming along nicely. With a cigarette dangling from his lips he snickered at how easy it was to manipulate the media. The front page of the Washington Post read, "Murky Conspiracy Rumored to Be Behind Murders." The front page of the New York Times read, "FBI Thinks Murders Were Committed to Stop President's Budget." The Washington Reader read, "FBI Thinks Letter Is Bogus."

Garret laughed out loud. It had been so easy. It made no difference if it was made up or not, the damage had been done. The American people would read the headlines and believe what they saw. Public support would rally back to the President, and they would ride it into a second term. Garret shook his head and grinned as he thought of the power he wielded. Garret's plan was simple. All he had to do was continue to portray the President as a victim and hope those idiots over at the FBI could catch these people. He smiled at how easy it was to play the power game against principled men like Roach. While they took the time to decide if a course of action was right or wrong, Garret worried only about being caught. He had no time for petty little laws and technicalities, and he definitely had no time for  someone else's morals. He was there to get things done, and to play the game by his own rules.

Director Roach's limousine pulled up in front of the Hyatt hotel at 6:55 A.M. He was there to give a brief speech to the National Convention of Police Chiefs. Because of the assassinations, he had considered having one of his deputies handle the speech, but after talking to Stansfield, he decided to give it himself.

He'd just finished scanning a Washington Reader article stating that the FBI thought there was a conspiracy behind the murders. As his bodyguards opened the door of the limo, a small mob of about eight reporters and cameramen closed in. Roach stepped out of the limo and said hello to the group. A tall, blond-haired woman got to him first.

"Director Roach, could you please tell us what information the FBI has discovered that would lead you to believe the letter sent to the media after the killings is a cover for the real reason Senator Downs, Senator Fitzgerald, and Congressman Koslowski were killed?" To the surprise of Roach's bodyguards, their boss stopped to answer the question. The reporters jostled each other to get their mikes in Roach's face. "As of right now, we believe that letter to be sincere and are very concerned about the possibility of other assassinations."

A tall male reporter blurted out the next question. "Director Roach, do you think the murders were committed in an attempt to derail President Stevens's budget?"

"No, I do not. We think the assassinations took place on the eve of the budget vote because it guaranteed the assassins that Congressman Koslowski, Senator Downs, and Senator Fitzgerald would be in town.

"I don't understand. The White House has been reporting that the FBI believes the murders were committed to derail the President's budget," said a somewhat confused reporter. "Those reports are incorrect."

Before another question could be asked, Roach turned and entered the hotel.

Within minutes, his comments were being played as the lead story on every morning network news show. Without knocking, Garret opened the door to Nance's office and barged in. Nance glanced up from his TV, which was showing the taped interview of Roach. "What in the hell is he doing?" asked Garret as he pointed at the TV.

Nance turned his head away from the TV. "Relax, Stu, this was expected. You didn't really think he would sit there and let us use him, did you?"

"Hell no, but I at least thought he'd come to us, not go to the press," Garret said, glaring at the TV. "Calm down, we already got what we wanted. The polls have swung ten points in our favor. The people think there's some big conspiracy to ruin the President. The press loves the story and will run with it, regardless of what Roach says.

We'll have Moncur release a statement saying it was improperly implied that the FBI had discovered the information when it was in fact another government agency. They'll all assume it's the CIA, and it'll make the story that much better. Besides, we can use this 'Roach thing' to our advantage. He fired the first shot. With a FBI leaks to the right people, the press will be printing stories saying there's bad blood between Roach and the White House, and if he doesn't make some progress in solving these murders, things will get very uncomfortable for him.

Combine that with the fact that our friends in the media will be more than willing to do a butcher job on a saint like Roach, and we'll have his letter of resignation in our hands by next month." In a rare moment of' emotion, Nance smiled at Garret, and the gesture was returned.

THE BELL ATLANTIC VAN WAS PARKED ON NEW HAMPSHIRE AVENUE, A half block from Dupont Circle. The two men in the back checked their makeup and equipment one last time. On top of their Afro wigs they were wearing yellow plastic hard hats. They were also wearing blue coveralls with a Bell Atlantic patch over the left pocket. They nodded to the driver, grabbed their bags, and climbed out of the van.

Casually, they walked down the stairs leading to the Dupont Circle platform of the D.C. metro.

Upon reaching the platform, they climbed on board the metro and took the red line to Union Station. They arrived about five minutes later and got off. Threading their way through the other subway riders, they walked to the end of the platform and stepped out onto the small edge running along the side of the tunnel. After about fifty feet they reached a doorway and stopped. The shorter man handed a bag to his accomplice and went to work on the lock. Twenty seconds later they were in. They stepped through the vault door that led to one of the underground tunnel systems that ran beneath Washington, D.C. The system they had just entered housed mostly phone lines and various utility pipes. The sewers carrying the city's waste and water runoff were located in another system that was buried even deeper. As they walked through the squared cement tunnel, the taller of the two men had to tilt his head to one side to avoid hitting the lights that were spaced about every fifty feet overhead. They took a series of turns, and after about three minutes they were standing in front of another door.

Again, the shorter of the two went to work on the lock. When he was finished picking it, he opened the door and placed a piece of duct tape over the lock. The two men stepped into the subbasement of a twelve-story office building and let the door close behind them. The shorter of the two headed for the staircase and disappeared. The second man weaved through the mass of pipes and structural supports until he found what he was looking for. He pried open the steel access panel to the main duct of the building's ventilation system and placed it on the ground. The other man had just finished climbing to the sixth floor of the multi-tenant office building.

They had scouted the building months in advance. The top five floors were leased by a law firm, and the rest of the floors were half-filled with lobbying firms, smaller offices, and various other businesses.

Vacant suites were interspersed on all of the floors except the top five. He opened the staircase door and looked down the hallway. With no one in sight, he casually walked down the hall and stopped at the third door on his right. Setting his bag down, he started to pick the lock.

Speed was not crucial; acting relaxed and nonchalant was. He wasn't worried about one of the office workers seeing him. If they did, they wouldn't be surprised by someone from the phone company going into an empty office suite. Finishing with the lock, he entered the room and walked over to the tinted window. Dropping to one knee, he set his bag down and emptied the contents, laying them out on the floor in a precise manner. In under a minute he assembled the rifle and placed the nitroglycerin-tipped round in the chamber. Twenty seconds later the rifle was affixed to the top of a tripod. The assassin eased his left eye in behind the scope and stared down at the front door of the building directly across the street. He then turned on the laser sight, and a small red dot appeared on the tinted window. Twisting the screws on the tripod, he locked the rifle into place, and then, reaching into his bag, he grabbed a glass cutter and placed the suction cup in the middle of the red dot. Slowly, he swung the cutting piece in a clockwise motion with his right hand. Instead of popping the newly cut piece free, he tied one end of string around the glass cutter and the other end around one of the tripod's legs. Pulling the microphone arm down from under the short brim of his hard hat, he said, "Chuck, this is Sam, come in, over." Despite the whine of the machinery in the basement, the second man heard his partner loud and clear. "This is Chuck, over."

"Everything is set on my end, over."

"Roger, everything is set down here, over."

Secret Service agent Harry Dorle had been pulled out of the field and directed to head the personal protection detail for Congressman Thomas Basset. Since Basset was the Speaker of the House, he was deemed a high-profile target by the FBI and the Secret Service.

Dorle had been the special agent in charge for the Presidential detail of the previous administration. When his boss lost his reelection bid to Stevens, it was the end of Dorle's assignment. Like most of the Presidents before him, Stevens wanted a changing of the guard. The Secret Service did not object to this tradition because they knew it was good for their agents to be rotated. It helped prevent complacency and boredom. Dorle sat in the lobby of Speaker Basset's Capitol office and waited for the Speaker to give the word that he was ready to leave.

The tall, middle-aged agent looked calm on the outside, but inside he was a wreck. He had read the report on the Koslowski, Fitzgerald, and Downs assassinations, and it scared him. The assassins were professionals.

Three hits, all in one night. One a bare-handed kill, the second a rifle shot, and the third a point-blank hit. These guys were not your run-of-the-mill Aryan Nation types. They were pros, and with the way Basset liked to gallivant around town, he would be an easy target.

Because there were so many Congressman and Senators to protect, the Secret Service had not been able to give Dorle the number of agents he wanted. They had given him only five men and women, and the Speaker's normal Capitol Police detail had been increased to eight officers around the clock. Dorle made a cursory effort to ask Basset to cancel all public appearances until things cooled down, and as Dorle had expected, Basset declined. This, of course, made Dorle's job extremely difficult.

He knew the only way to really protect Basset was to keep him locked up in his house, his office, or his armor-plated limo. As soon as Basset left either of the three, Dorle's ability to protect him was reduced significantly. They were minutes away from leaving for Basset's taped interview with CNN. Dorle told his new boss that he thought it was a bad idea, and Basset had politely told him he wasn't going to cancel.