Term Limits

chapter Nine
CNN had been advertising the appearance of the Speaker since late Sunday afternoon, and although it would be tape-delayed, it wouldn't take a genius to figure out when the taping would take place. Dorle could not remember being more worried about an assignment. Whoever these killers were, they'd had months to plan what they were doing.

They'd stalked and studied their targets, and if that letter was for real, they would strike again. Dorle was gambling with his assets. He just didn't have enough men to do a complete job. He had sent four of his Secret Service agents and two of the uniformed officers ahead to do an advance check of the CNN building. They were to do a quick check of the street, the exits, and the rooftop. He would put four of the uniformed cops on body detail. They would surround Basset as he got out of the limo and walked into the studio. Dorle had contemplated using his Secret Service agents for the body detail; they were trained to do it, but they were more valuable to him doing other things.

Speaker Basset and his aide, Matthew Schwab, appeared in the lobby, and Dorle rose to his feet. "Are you ready to go, sir?"

"Yes," Basset answered.

Dorrell brought his left hand up to his mouth and spoke into a tiny microphone. "Art, this is Harry, over."

The Secret Service agent just outside the office door responded, "This is Art, over."

"Bobcat is ready to roll, over." Bobcat was the code name that had been given to Basset. The agent looked up and down the hall and nodded to the police officer holding the elevator. "The hallway is secure, over."

"Roger, let the boys downstairs know we're on our way, over." Dorrell turned to Basset and motioned for the door.

"Whenever you're ready, sir." Dorrell opened the door and Basset and Schwab stepped into the hallway. The entourage of Basset, Schwab, Dorrell, the other Secret Service agent, and two cops started for the elevator. Dorrell took up the rear, while the other three men surrounded Basset and Schwab. The entourage stepped into the elevator for the short ride to the garage level. When the door opened, another police officer was waiting for them, and the group moved out of the underground parking garage. Dorrell wasn't nervous about anything happening in the Capitol.

The assassins would have to be suicidal to try something with all the military personnel and police in the building. When they reached the garage, the limo was waiting with one police squad parked in front and another behind. Schwab and Basset Were quickly ushered into the backseat. Dorrell brought the Capitol Police officers together for a quick reminder of how things would go when they arrived at their destination. When he was finished, the police got into their squad cars, Agent Art Jones climbed behind the wheel of the large, black Cadillac, and Dorrell got into the backseat with the Speaker and Schwab.

Before giving the order to pull out, Dorrell brought his mike up to his mouth and said, "Advance team Bravo, this is Alpha, do you read?

Over."

The leader of the advance team at the CNN studios heard the call through his earpiece and had to cut off one of the building's private security guards in mid-sentence. "This is Bravo, over."

"We are en route with Bobcat. What is your sit report? Over."

"About as secure as we could get things on such short notice, Harry, over."

"Roger, our ETA is two minutes. If anything changes, let me know immediately, over." Dorrell looked at his agent behind the wheel.

"Let's move out, Art." Jones flashed the limo's brights at the lead police car, and the motorcade sped out of the parking garage. The assassin looked out of the window and down at the two police officers in front of the CNN building. They'd just stepped off the curb and were standing on the street, waving by cars and cabs that wanted to stop in front of the building. He spoke into the mike hanging in front of his mouth. "Chuck, stay loose. They should be arriving any minute, over." The response came back immediately. "Roger, everything is set down here." The man standing in front of the ventilation shaft took off his hard hat, placed it in his bag, and pulled out a gas mask.

Reaching back into the bag, he grabbed two gray canisters and set them on top of the ventilation unit.

The motorcade pulled up in front of the building and stopped. Dorrell immediately noticed that, despite telling the drivers of both squads to give the limo at least thirty feet on either end, they had forgotten and the limo was boxed in. "Art, call the guys in the squads and tell them to move their cars farther away from the limo." Dorrell turned to  Basset. "Sir, please stay in the car for a minute while I check things out." Dorrell exited the limo and met his agent in charge of the Bravoteam on the sidewalk. "How are we doing?" he asked the junior man.

"Fine. The exits are secured, the elevator is being held, and Alan is on the roof keeping an eye on things." The assassin looked down at the two men on the street and guessed that they were either Secret Service or FBI. It had been expected.

He spoke into his mike, "Chuck, get ready to pull the pin." The man in the basement pulled the gas mask down over his face and grabbed one of the canisters. Back on the sixth floor, the assassin watched as the man who had stepped out of the limo waved several police officers over and started to organize them around the door of the limo. None of these men would do any good. The assassin had chosen the sixth floor so the angle of the shot would be such that four seven-foot-tall officers would make no difference. They didn't want to kill anyone other than Basset. That was also the reason the nitro-tipped bullet was being used. Unlike most rifle bullets, this one would explode on impact and not exit the target. A typical rifle bullet would spiral through the target and exit with enough  velocity to inflict damage, and even death, to anyone unfortunate enough to be standing on the other side. The assassin saw the man who had gotten  out of the limo a moment earlier stick his head into the open door and then step back as he helped Basset out of the backseat.

The assassin clutched the butt of the rifle a little tighter, placed his right hand on the string, and spoke into the small mike hanging in front of his mouth, "Chuck, drop the smoke." The man in the basement pulled the pin from the first canister, tossed it into the open vent, and quickly grabbed the second canister and did the same. He then grabbed the metal access panel and covered the opening. The smoke from the two canisters immediately shot upward through the ventilation system, pushed by the warm air leaving the furnace. The man then walked briskly to the wall and waited. The assassin on the sixth floor concentrated on taking slow, deep breaths.

When he saw the head of Basset pop out of the limo, his right hand yanked the string attached to the glass cutter, and the newly created circle of glass dropped to the floor. Basset was ushered into the middle of the four police officers, and the group started to move toward the door. The assassin spoke into his mike, "Pull the alarm."

In the basement, his accomplice yanked on the fire alarm. The loud buzzing of the alarm reverberated throughout the building and spilled out onto the street. Dorrell and his agents were sweeping the street and looking at everyone but Basset. When the alarm went off, the police officers surrounding Basset did what their instincts told them to do. They stopped and looked to see where the noise was coming from.

At the same time the police officers' instincts kicked in, so did Dorle's. He lunged forward and screamed, "Keep moving!" As he reached the back of the first officer, he heard what he instantly knew was the loud crack of a rifle shot. He continued to push the group as he yelled, "Move! Move!" He took two steps, and then the officer in front of him stumbled and fell, landing on the fatally wounded Basset.

Dorrell placed his hand on the back of the officer to prevent himself from falling and looked down to see if Basset had been hit. The answer was immediately obvious. There was blood everywhere. The nitro-tipped bullet had ripped apart the back of Basset's head, and the white shirts of the Capitol Police officers were covered with blood and a good portion of the Speaker's brain.

Dorrell kneeled over the pile and brought his mike to his mouth.

"Bobcat's been hit! I repeat, Bobcat has been hit!" Two of the Secret Service agents were now standing between the street and the pile of bodies on the ground, their Uzis drawn, and their eyes searching the buildings across the street. The assassin quickly disassembled the rifle and put everything back in the bag. Smoke was filling the room and he yanked his gas mask over his face. Grabbing the bag, he ran down the hallway toward the stairwell. Once in the stairwell, he pushed his way past the scared office workers who thought the building was on fire.

Dorrell looked down at what was left of Basset's head and knew the Speaker was dead. Just then, the voice of the Secret Service agent on the roof of the CNN building came barking over Dorle's earpiece. "I think the shot came from the building directly across the street!"

Dorrell jumped to his feet and started shouting orders. "Art, call for backup, let's secure that building!" Turning to one of the cops, he yelled, "Take two of your men and head around the back! I don't want anyone leaving the area! And be careful!" Grabbing the two agents who had their Uzis drawn, he ran across the street for the front of the building. They darted between the cars that had stopped to see what was happening. They made it to the other side of the street, and just as they reached the front of the building, an onslaught of frantic office workers met them coming the other way. They were blocked from getting inside. Three blocks away at Union Station, the blond-haired assassin was wearing loose jeans, a large sweatshirt, and a baseball hat. He walked over to a row of pay phones. Union Station, like most large train and subway stations, had hundreds of pay phones. It was an  easy place for a person to come and go unnoticed. The man reached into his left pocket and pulled out a quarter. The dirty-blond hair that came out from under the cap and down to his shoulders was not natural.

Neither was his posture. Instead of standing erect and looking like an athletic, six-foot-tall man, he was slouching. To the casual observer he looked like a slightly overweight man who was no taller than five ten. He punched the seven digits into the phone and pulled a small recorder out of his pocket. A female voice answered on the other end, "Good afternoon, American Broadcasting Corporation. How may I direct your call?" The man pressed the play button on the recorder, and a computerized voice emanated from the small speaker. "Do not hang up.

This message is from the group that is responsible for the killings of Senator Fitzgerald, Senator Downs, Congressman Koslowski, and Speaker Basset." The twenty-three-year-old receptionist felt her heart jolt.

She panicked for a moment and then remembered that all calls coming into the main switchboard were recorded. After a short pause the recording continued. "Speaker Basset was killed because he and the rest of his colleagues have failed to take our demands seriously. We are not terrorists. We have killed no innocent civilians; in fact, we have gone to great lengths to avoid doing so. We are not, as the White House has led the media to believe, part of a conspiracy to topple the Stevens presidency. We are a group of Americans who are fed up with the corruption and complete lack of professionalism that exists in Washington, D.C. "We gave you a chance to implement in a peaceful, democratic way the reforms you have been promising. You have failed to do so, so we have intervened. Do not test us again or we will be forced to impose more term limits. We have the resources and the resolve to kill any Congressman, any Senator, and even the President.

"We will grant a cease-fire and give you the remainder of the week to bury Koslowski, Downs, Fitzgerald, and Basset. After they have been laid to rest, we expect immediate action on the reforms we have proposed."

IT WAS STILL LIGHT OUT AS HARRY DORRELL PASSED THROUGH THE SECRET Service checkpoint and parked his car outside the staff entrance to the West Wing of the White House. Getting out of the car, he asked himself for the hundredth time since the shooting how the assassin had gotten away.

The police had sealed off the entire block within minutes of the attack.

All of the people who had evacuated the smoke-filled building had been roped off and were being questioned for the third and fourth time by the FBI and the Secret Service. So far, every one of them had checked out as a legitimate office worker. The building had been searched with dogs and was empty. What a mess, he thought to himself. I've had twenty-three good years and now this.

As he reached the entrance, Jack Lortch opened the door. "Harry, I'm sorry... I'm really sorry." Lortch had replaced Dorrell as the special agent in charge of the Presidential security detail. The two men had known each other for most of their professional careers. Dorrell nodded his head in acknowledgment, but kept his eyes averted. They walked to the main floor, Lortch leading and Dorrell following, neither saying a word. When they reached the door to the Roosevelt Room, Dorrell stopped and asked, "Jack, is the President in there?"

"No, he's over on the residential side talking to Mrs. Basset."

Dorrell looked down at the ground and shook his head. Lortch put his hand on his friend's shoulder. "Harry, it wasn't your fault." Dorrell looked up. "Yeah, yeah, I know." When they entered the room, Stu Garret was pacing back and forth talking to Alex Tracy, the director of the Secret Service. Mike Nance was at the far end of the table, sitting by himself and observing the conversation between Garret and Tracy. Garret turned and stopped speaking as Lortch and Dorrell entered. The room fell silent and no one spoke for a moment. Director Tracy finally broke the silence.

"Gentlemen, please sit down." Everyone sat with the exception of Garret.

Director Tracy looked at Dorrell. "Harry, are you all right?" Dorrell nodded his head yes, but said nothing. Tracy stared at him a while longer and went on, "Harry, have you met Stu Garret and Mike Nance before?"

"No." There was another awkward silence while Dorrell waited for Nance or Garret to say something, but neither made the effort. Then Garret stepped toward the table. "Agent Dorrell, we have been receiving reports all afternoon and we know the basic facts about what happened.

What we don't know, and what I would really like to know, is, how did it happen?" Garret said in one of his more confrontational tones.

"What do you mean 'how'?" asked Dorrell. "I'll tell you what I mean by how. I want to know how in the hell the Speaker of the House, the third most powerful man in this country, was killed in broad daylight while he was surrounded by a dozen Secret Service agents and police officers." Garret leaned over, placed both hands on the table, and stared at Dorrell as he impatiently waited for a response. Dorrell looked at Garret and realized how this meeting was going to go. He'd heard all about Garret and his style, so he sat up a little straighter and prepared himself for the confrontation. It had been a long day and Dorrell was not in the mood to be dumped on. His face tensed slightly as he spoke. "Speaker Basset was killed because he refused to cancel a public appearance. He was warned that we could not guarantee his safety, and he chose to ignore our advice."

"That's bullshit, Dorrell. He was killed because you and your men didn't do your jobs. It's as simple as that." Garret banged his fist on the table. Dorrell rose out of his chair to meet Garret eye to eye.

"Oh, no, you're not." Pointing his finger at Garret, he said, "I'm not going to sit here and let you hang the blame for this on me." Garret interrupted Dorrell and shouted, "Agent Dorrell, you are in the White House, and I run the show around here. You will sit your ass back down right now and keep your mouth shut!"

"I don't give a flying f*ck if you're the king of Siam! I told him it wasn't a good idea to go out in public, and he ignored me. I did my job, and if Basset would have listened to me, he'd still be alive!"

Garret looked over at Director Tracy and screamed, "I want this man fired right now!" Without waiting for Tracy to respond, Garret snapped his head around to Lortch and pointed at Dorrell. "Get him out of here now! I want his ass thrown out on the street!" Dorrell went to step toward Garret, and Lortch rose out of his seat, blocking him. "Harry, it's not worth it."

"Bullshit, I don't need this crap. I've been around too long to take shit from this little Hitler." Garret looked back at Director Tracy.

"I want him fired right now! I want his badge before he leaves this building." Lortch pushed Dorrell out the door and closed it behind him.

Dorrell was shaking and his face was red from yelling. "Jack, I'm not going to take the blame for what happened to Basset."

"I know, Harry. I know, just relax." Dorrell took a couple of deep breaths. "I haven't lost my temper like that in years."

"You've had a long day, and Garret doesn't usually bring out the best in people."

"I can't believe that guy. Does the President actually listen to him?"

"I'm afraid so." Back in the Roosevelt Room, Mike Nance stood and gestured for Garret to follow him.

He opened a door at the opposite end of the room and walked across the hall to the Oval Office. Garret walked around the large table and through the door. When he entered the Oval Office, Nance closed the door behind Garret and stood staring at him for a full thirty seconds while he waited for Garret to calm down. In a steady voice Nance said, "Stu, you've got to learn to control yourself."

"Mike, this whole damn thing is falling apart. We've lost Koslowski and Basset. Do you know what our odds are for getting him reelected with those two dead?" Garret held up his hand and formed a zero.

"They're zip, Mike. You and I are going to be out of a job next year.

This whole thing is falling apart, and it's because idiots like that Dorrell can't do their job." Nance looked at Garret and wondered momentarily if he really was nuts. "Stu, you have to get a hold of yourself. A lot of things could happen between now and election time.

Losing your temper doesn't do us a bit of good. We have a lot of work to do tonight, so calm down. The important thing right now is to get the public behind us.

We have to find a way to turn this thing around. It's not going to be easy, but we have to keep our heads."

Garret nodded in agreement and Nance said, "Let's go back in there and keep our cool." Speaker Basset had left the Capitol's underground parking garage in a black limousine less than twenty-four hours earlier.

He was now being returned in a black hearse. As the vehicle rolled to a stop, the back door was opened, and a special detail of six military personnel in dress uniform lifted the flag-draped casket out of the hearse and onto a gurney. After consulting with Speaker Basset's family, President Stevens had given the order to make arrangements for Basset to be included in the already planned ceremony for Senator Fitzgerald, Congressman Koslowski, and Senator Downs. All four of the deceased had stated in their wills that they were to be buried in their home states.

With the obvious security issues arising from the string of assassinations, it was decided that it would be best to have Basset join his three fallen comrades rather than have a separate ceremony in two days. After a short elevator ride to the main level of the Capitol, the gurney was discarded and the special detail carried the coffin down the hallway, across the cold, stone floor, and laid it on the rectangular, black catafalque. The four flag-draped coffins sat underneath the center of the Capitol's large dome, each one pointing outward, marking the four major points of the compass. It was almost  10 A.M and with the exception of a military color guard, the rotunda was void of all people.

One by one, the families were given a private moment alone, to mourn over the coffin of their deceased relative. Each family took about half an hour, and at noon the media was let in and allowed to start coverage of the event. The cameras started to roll, and the Senators  and Congressman filed in to pay their last respects. Just after 2 P.M the legislators were shuffled off into secure areas of the Capitol, and the doors were opened to the public. A steady stream of peoplefiled by the coffins until just after midnight, when the crowd started to thin.

Senator Erik Olson was sitting in his study trying to decide if he should go against the wishes of the President, the FBI, the Secret Service, and his wife. It was almost 1 A.M and he couldn't sleep.

Too much was on his mind. He knew that the right and honorable thing to do would be to walk behind the caissons as the procession of coffins were moved from the Capitol to the White House. The daring daylight assassination of Basset had made every Congressman and Senator realize just how vulnerable they all were. Basset had been given more protection than any of his colleagues, and they'd still gotten to him.

Not only did they get to him, but they got away without a trace. The FBI and the Secret Service were not taking any more chances, and the politicians who were still alive had become extremely agreeable in the wake of the recent events. Earlier in the day, when the final security arrangements were being made for the funeral procession, it had been decided by the Secret Service and the FBI that no one, not even family members, would walk in the open, behind the caissons. None of the senior Senators and Congressman had argued. They were not eager to join the ranks of the fallen four. But for a variety of reasons, Olson felt that he should walk behind the caskets. First of all, it was a tradition that should be kept and honored, and secondly, he felt that someone needed to show that the government of the United States was not afraid. Someone needed desperately to look like a leader. Every politician in the country was cowering behind locked doors and bodyguards. Olson couldn't blame them, especially the ones who had been unscrupulous during their time in Washington. The Senator from Minnesota had gotten along with all four of the dead men, but he held no false illusions about their character. They were four of the most  unethical politicians in Washington. Olson was a historian by training and was more worried about the broad implications these murders would have on the future of American politics. History was the great teacher, he had always told his students. History repeated itself for many reasons. Mostly because people really hadn't changed all that much over the course of modern civilization, and more so because history set precedents and gave people ideas. Olson did not want what was happening in his country to become a precedent. The events that had started the previous Friday needed to be stopped and dealt with in a swift and just manner. There was no room in a democracy for terrorism.

Someone needed to stand up; someone needed to act like a leader.

Someone needed to walk behind those caissons tomorrow and show that he was not afraid. The silver-haired Swede pictured himself walking alone on the slow, one-mile journey and wondered if any of his colleagues would have the courage to join him. He started to mentally scroll through a list of names, searching for someone who would be bold enough to accompany him.

After a brief moment, a name popped into his head and he went no further. Reaching for his phone, he dialed the number. Michael patted Duke on the head and dropped his keys on the kitchen counter. As he picked up a stack of mail, he was relieved to see Liz's purse sitting by the phone. O'Rourke quickly thumbed through the mail and then set the entire stack back on the counter. He yanked his tie off and started to unbutton his shirt as he headed for the stairs. Duke followed, and Michael stopped in the front entryway and said good-night to his canine buddy. It was late, he was tired, and he needed to talk to Liz. Guilt was starting to weigh heavily on his shoulders. The young Congressman plodded up the stairs and into his bedroom. Liz was sitting on her side of the bed reading a book and wearing one of his gray University of Minnesota T-shirts. Michael smiled at her and sat down on the edge. Liz set her book down and took off her glasses.

"You look like crap, honey."

"Thanks," O'Rourke grimly responded. He dropped his face into his hands and groaned. Rubbing his back, Liz asked, "What's on your mind?"

Without raising his head he said, "I'd like to tell you about it but I don't think I can." Liz threw off the covers and swung her bare legs off the bed. As Liz pulled him upright and took his hands away from his face, Michael was cursing himself for the way he had phrased his last comment.

The worst thing you can say to a reporter is that you know something but you can't talk about it. "What is bothering you?" asked Liz.

Michael turned and kissed her on the lips. She returned his kiss for a second, then grabbed him by the chin and pushed him back. With her most serious look she repeated, "What is bothering you?" Deep down inside, Michael wanted to tell her, but he had to be careful. This  would have to be handled in stages. "What would you say if I told youI think I know who the assassins are?" Liz opened her eyes wide.

"You're not serious?"

Michael nodded yes. Tucking one of her legs up on the bed, she moved back a foot. "You are serious." Michael nodded his head again. "Who are they?"

"I don't think I should tell you."

"Why?" asked an incredulous Scarlatti. "Because knowing who they are might drag you into this, and right now there is no telling where it's going."

"Are you going to talk to the FBI?" Michael looked down at the floor.

"No." Liz got down on her knees and looked up at him. "You can't be serious."

"I am."

"You have to go to the FBI, Michael! You're a Congressman!"

"Darling, I'm not going to the FBI . . . at least not for now. And I don't want you talking to anyone about this." Scarlatti frowned and Michael said, "Liz, I confided in you because I trust you. Don't mention a word of this to anyone."

Reluctantly Liz said, "All right, all right... I won't say anything."

Liz reached up and ran her fingers through his hair. With a frown she asked, "Who are they?" Michael looked into her brown eyes and said, "For your own good I'm not going to tell you." Liz began to protest  but the moment was broken by the ringing of the phone. Michael looked for the cordless phone and realized it must be on the charger in the  den. If someone was calling this late, it must be important. O'Rourke dashed down the hall and grabbed the phone. "Hello."

"Michael, I'm sorry to bother you so late. I hope I didn't wake you."

It was Michael's former boss, Senator Olson. "No . . . no, I was awake.

What's up?" After an uncomfortable pause, Olson asked, "Michael, I need to ask you a big favor."

"What can I help you with?"

"I've decided to walk in the procession from the Capitol to the White House tomorrow. and I was wondering. if you would walk with me?"

"I thought they weren't going to let anyone walk." O'Rourke had been given a memo at the office that described the agenda for the day's events and stated that no Congressman or Senators would be allowed to accompany the horse-drawn caissons to the White House.

"Michael, I am a United States Senator. No one is going to tell me I can't walk in that procession. I've thought about it long and hard. I worked with those men for over thirty years, and although I didn't particularly care for all of them, I still feel it is my duty to stand by them one last time.

Someone in this town needs to show a little courage."

"Why would you risk your life trying to honor four of the most dishonorable men who have ever been elected to public office? They were a disgrace! I can't believe you're even considering it!" Olson  almost lost his temper. "I'm sorry you feel that way, Michael. If I had known you disliked them so much, I would not have asked you to join me."