Term Limits (57 page)

For several minutes he pointed a directional microphone at each room of the house. When he was relatively certain that only one person was home, he put away the equipment and got out of the car. He walked to the trunk to make sure it was unlocked, and while he did so, he did a quick check of the street. After looking up at the lit windows of the house in question, he patted his pockets to make sure he had everything and then put on a pair of black leather gloves.

Michael felt ten times better after his long, hot shower. He dried off as best as he could in the mist-filled bathroom and then tried to wipe the steam off the mirror. He cleaned off a small patch and noticed that although he felt better, he still had dark marks under both eyes. After pulling on jeans and a well-worn gray sweatshirt, he heard the doorbell ring. As he bounced down the stairs, he wondered briefly who it could be and then realized Liz had probably forgotten her keys.

Michael hit the landing with a thud and grabbed for the doorknob. Yanking the door open, he said, “You forgot your keys again, huh?” When the door opened fully, O'Rourke froze for an instant. He didn't recognize the gray-bearded man wearing an olive trench coat and a brown fedora.

Before Michael could think, the fatherly individual smiled and asked, “Congressman O'Rourke?”

Michael looked down at the older man and replied, “Ah… yes.”

With the smile still on his face, the visitor retrieved his right hand from his pocket as if to shake Michael's hand. In a smooth, nonchalant motion he extended a Tazer stun gun and squeezed the trigger. A metal-and-plastic dart streaked out of the end of the electric-shock gun and embedded itself in Michael's stomach. O'Rourke went rigid as two hundred thousand volts of electricity shot through his body. He took two steps backward and then collapsed. As he fell to the ground, he landed on a thin wooden table in the entryway, shattering the fragile piece of wood beneath him and sending several framed photos crashing to the floor. Michael lay clutching his stomach, unable to move.

The not-so-harmless visitor moved with precision. Before Michael hit the floor, the man had already stepped into the foyer and closed the door. Next he pulled a syringe gun from his left pocket and held it to O'Rourke's neck. He depressed the trigger and sent enough muscle relaxant into the congressman's system to keep him nice and docile for the next hour. Plastic handcuffs were quickly fastened to both O'Rourke's wrists and ankles, and a strip of duct tape was placed over his mouth. Next the intruder moved to the window and looked outside. He extinguished the light over the front door and also the one in the hallway. After scanning the street, he returned to O'Rourke and with amazing ease hefted the much larger O'Rourke over his shoulder.

One more quick check of the street and the man was out the door and down the steps. He carried O'Rourke to the rear of his car, where he lifted the
already unlocked trunk and deposited O'Rourke like a sack of potatoes. Michael hit with a thud, and the older man checked to make sure his hostage's arms and legs were out of the way, then closed the trunk. He climbed behind the wheel of his car and pulled away from the curb. One block away, he grabbed his secure digital phone and punched in a number.

After one ring Mike Nance answered, “Hello.”

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

“Any problems?”

“None.”

“I'll be waiting.”

The former intelligence operative hung up the secure phone and sped off in the direction of Maryland. He smiled briefly at the thought of collecting fifty thousand dollars for such an easy job and then began to wonder what Mike Nance wanted from the congressman in his trunk.

Scarlatti walked down the tree-lined street with a bag of groceries in one hand and Duke's leash in the other. Autumn-colored leaves dotted the sidewalk and curb. A chilling breeze kicked up as she turned onto O'Rourke's street. She looked forward to spending the night with Michael, and there would be next week. They were scheduled to leave on Sunday afternoon to go back to Minnesota for Senator Olson's funeral. She didn't relish the somber occasion, but it would be nice to get out of D.C. for a while. Northern Minnesota was beautiful this time of the year.

Duke made the turn up the steps to Michael's house, and Liz followed with an outstretched arm. She fished for her keys and, after finding the right one, opened the door. Duke ran inside, and Liz let go of the leash. She could take it off after she got rid of the groceries. She turned on the light and went to set the groceries down but froze. The table she wanted to set them on was lying on the floor in a half dozen pieces. Liz called out Michael's name. She listened intently for a reply, then yelled his name louder. Duke came back down the hallway and rubbed his neck against her leg. Scarlatti reached down and patted his head. She set the groceries on the floor and headed for the stairs, calling Michael's name again. Her heart began to quicken, and she called for Duke to follow.

Once upstairs, she inspected the steam-streaked mirror in the bathroom and then checked the den before heading back downstairs, all the time calling Michael's name more frantically. She flew down the stairs to the basement and threw open the door to the garage. His truck was there. She turned and sprinted back up the stairs to the kitchen and checked to see if his keys were on the hook—they were. Scarlatti bit her lip while she thought of all the things Michael had just told her. She couldn't help but think the worst. I was only gone for thirty minutes, she thought to herself. She took a deep breath and tried to think of where he could be, but her mind kept coming back to the broken table in the front hallway.

Her hand sprang for the phone on the kitchen wall, but she stopped short. “Should I call the
police?” she asked out loud. She willed herself to calm down and not overreact. “I'll call Tim. Maybe Tim and Seamus stopped by, and they went to pick me up at the store.” Scarlatti quickly punched in Tim's phone number, and after several rings Michael's brother answered.

“Tim, this is Liz. Do you know where Michael is?”

Tim paused for a second. “I think he's at his house.”

“No, he isn't.” Liz's voice grew more frantic. “I'm here right now!” She spoke at a rapid pace. “I came by an hour ago, and he was napping. I got him up, and he got in the shower while I went to the store. I just got back, and he's nowhere in the house… and that little table by the front door is smashed… like someone fell on it.… Something isn't right, Tim.”

“Calm down, Liz. Is his truck gone?”

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

“No!” yelled Tim. “Seamus and I will be over in less than five minutes. Try to stay calm, and don't call the police until we get there.”

Liz hung up the phone and paced. She asked herself, who would take him and why? Could it be Coleman? No.… What about Stansfield? Michael had said it himself. If the story were to get out, the CIA would be shut down immediately. Liz looked at the phone again and hesitated for only a second. She called information, got the general number for the CIA, and hit the connect button. A man
answered on the third ring and Liz said, “Director Stansfield, please.”

The operator remained professional despite the fact that someone was calling the Agency's general number on a Saturday evening and asking to talk to the director. “The director isn't in right now. May I take a message?”

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

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

“Believe me it does! Tell him Liz Scarlatti from the
Washington Reader
wants to talk about the events surrounding Arthur Higgins, Mike Nance, Stu Garret, and Congressman Michael O'Rourke. Give him that message immediately, and have him call me back at the following number in the next five minutes, or I'm going to press with what I have.” Liz gave the man Michael's number and hung up.

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

Stansfield's tired shoulders slumped another several inches as he reached for the paper. Without saying a word, he turned to go back to his office and Kennedy followed. Stansfield dropped his briefcase and his jacket on the nearest chair and walked behind his desk.

“How in the hell could this get out so fast?” asked Kennedy.

Stansfield shook his head. “It's either O'Rourke or the White House.” He set the piece of paper down and pointed to a second phone on the credenza. “If you would please, Irene. Call down to Charlie and have him run a trace on this call.” Stansfield began dialing the number.

The startling ring of the phone caused Liz to jump. She snatched the phone off the wall and said, “Hello.”

“Miss Scarlatti?” asked Stansfield.

“Yes, this is she.”

“This is Director Stansfield. I just received your message, and I'm a little confused.”

Liz clutched the phone tightly and tried to stay calm. “I know everything. I know all about how Higgins and Nance and Garret were behind the—”

Stansfield cut her off. “We don't need to get into specifics, Miss Scarlatti. Where are you calling from?” Stansfield had no desire to discuss this issue on an open line.

“What does that matter?” Liz heard a click at the front door and her heart leapt. She looked down the
hall hoping to see Michael, but instead Tim and Seamus came through the door.

“I need to know if you're on a secure line,” said Stansfield.

Liz looked at the phone and said, “I doubt it, and I really don't care.” Tim and Seamus entered the kitchen and listened to Liz talk. “Congressman Michael O'Rourke is missing from his house, and if he isn't returned within the next hour, I am going to wire every news service on the planet the real story about what has been going on in Washington over the last week.”

Seamus's eyes opened wide. “Who are you talking to?”

Liz turned her back on Seamus and Tim and covered her other ear.

“Hold on a minute,” continued Stansfield. “How do you know Congressman O'Rourke is missing?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Any chance the call was a fake?” asked Kennedy.

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

After several clicks the president answered. “Thomas, what's wrong?”

“We seem to have a problem, sir.” 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?”