Term Limits (58 page)

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 at 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 the 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 countersurveillance 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 traceproof, 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.