Term Limits

by Vince Flynn

  “Hey, I was fine until that madman O’Rourke started flexing his muscles.”

  “You were cracking long before he entered the picture.” Nance turned and looked out the window for a moment. His thoughts settled on O’Rourke. “I wonder if Mr. O’Rourke knows more than he was letting on.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I think it might be worth our while to have a little-chat with the young congressman.” Nance looked past Garret and honed in on his own reflection in the mirror behind the bar. He reached up and gently touched his swollen, purple nose. “Besides, I’d like the opportunity to give him a little payback.”

  “Mike, are you fucking crazy? We’ve been given a chance to walk away from this whole mess. Let’s take the deal and cut our losses.”

  Nance wheeled toward Garret, causing the chief of staff to abruptly step backward. “I have worked my whole life to get where I am.” Nance stepped closer and Garret retreated, matching his strides. “I am more than willing to gamble on the fact that O’Rourke might know more than he claims. We have nothing else to lose thanks to you and your lack of composure.” Nance turned away from Garret and walked toward the door. “Wait right here, Stu. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  Nance walked to the opposite end of the fourthousandsquare-foot rambler. He stopped at the door to his private study and punched in the eightdigit code for the security lock on the door. The light turned from red to green and he twisted the handle. After he entered the room the door closed behind him and automatically locked. Walking around the desk, Nance turned on his computer and sat in an old wooden swivel chair. He rocked back and forth and waited for the program manager to come online. He went into his personal database after entering his password, then pulled up the file manager. Pressing down on the mouse, he scrolled through a list of files until he found the one he was looking for. Nance double-clicked the mouse, and the system asked for another password. Nance entered it, and a moment later he was staring at the name he needed.

  Nance reached down and opened the right drawer of the desk, revealing a secure phone. He picked up the handset and punched in the number. After several whirling noises, a curt voice answered on the other end, “Hello.”

  “Jarod, this is Mike. I need you to do a little job for me.”

  There was a slight pause. “How difficult?”

  In a calm voice Nance replied, “No danger to you. The job is rather delicate though. Why don’t we say . . . an even fifty.”

  Michael O’Rourke was sound asleep. The events of the last three days had left him exhausted. After his meetings earlier in the day at the White House and Langley, Michael made a brief appearance at a private visitation for Senator Olson and then went home to sleep. He had just enough energy to make it up the stairs to his bedroom before falling facedown and passing out. O’Rourke had lain in this position, without moving, for almost five hours.

  Michael stirred slightly at the noise of someone in his room. He was deep in a dream, and at first, he couldn’t decide if someone was really in his room or if it was part of his dream. He made an effort to roll over, but his arms were pinned underneath him and asleep. The next thing he knew he felt a hand on his head. His heart began to race, and his eyes popped open. It took a moment for his eyes to come into focus, and when they did, they revealed a concerned Liz Scarlatti hovering over him. O’Rourke rolled onto his side and freed his rubbery arms. He reached up for Liz and pulled her close.

  Scarlatti smiled and kissed his ear. “I’ve been calling you all afternoon. Where have you been?”

  O’Rourke rubbed his eyes and let out a big yawn. Then, looking toward the window, he asked, “What time is it?”

  “Ten after six.”

  “Wow.” O’Rourke stretched and twisted his body, letting out a groan. “That was the nap of the century.”

  “How long have you been asleep?” Scarlatti asked, running her fingers through his thick, black hair.

  “I’m not sure. I think since around one.” O’Rourke squeezed Liz tight and kissed her neck. “Mmm . . . you feel good.”

  “So do you. I haven’t seen enough of you lately.”

  “We’re going to have to rectify that.” Rolling over, Michael pinned Liz underneath him.

  She wrapped her arms tightly around his broad back and pulled him close, kissing him. O’Rourke’s midsection growled loudly, and Liz froze her kiss. “Was that your stomach?” O’Rourke nodded. “What have you eaten today?”

  O’Rourke looked up at the headboard while he tried to remember what he had eaten. “I’m not sure. It was a pretty hectic morning.”

  “Are you going to tell me about it?”

  “Honey, I don’t think you’d believe me if I told you.”

  With a cautious tone Liz asked, “Did you find out who is behind Erik’s death?”

  “Yep.”

  “Who?”

  “I’m not sure you want to know.”

  Liz pushed him off her and sat up. “Yes, I do.”

  Michael was on his back looking up at her. She had that serious, stubborn look on her face. “Honey, this is some pretty serious shit. I honestly think you would be better off not knowing any of it.”

  Liz poked him in the chest. “Do you remember when you told me the other day that if I ever divulged that Scott Coleman was behind the first four assassinations you would walk out of my life and never talk to me again?” Michael nodded yes. “Well, I can’t live the rest of my life with this big secret hanging between us. If you don’t trust my word that I will keep your secret, then maybe I should consider walking out of your life.”

  The comment stung, and Michael propped himself up on his elbows. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, it’s just that . . . the information could be dangerous.”

  “I’m a big girl,” Liz said in a patronizing tone. “If you don’t trust me enough, then we have some problems.” She stared unflinchingly at him.

  Michael struggled with what to do. He was tired, he was sick of the entire mess, and he just wanted the whole thing to be over. He rubbed his eyes for a second and then sat up. “All right. Here is what happened, and it goes without saying that you can never repeat any of this.” Michael started to recount the events of the last twenty-four hours. Again he omitted Seamus’s involvement with Coleman and failed to mention how they had found out about Arthur. He also neglected to tell her that he had knocked out Stu Garret and Mike Nance.

  When Michael had finished telling his edited version of the story, there was a brief silence while Liz gathered her thoughts. With a look of deep concern she asked the question that hit closest to home. “Who killed Arthur?”

  “Scott.”

  “Do you think the president was involved?”

  “I’m not sure. Stansfield doesn’t think so, but he’s going to look into it.”

  Liz bit her lower lip. “I can’t believe the FBI is going along with this.”

  “They have no other choice. If Nance and Garret’s involvement in this were to be made public . . .” Michael shook his head. “The whole country would erupt.”

  Scarlatti didn’t respond. She had a far-off look in her eye. Michael grabbed her by the cheeks and said, “Don’t even think about it, Liz. This story can never go public.”

  She pulled his hand away. “It’s not right, Michael. The people deserve to know. It’s not acceptable to have the CIA and the FBI running around behind our backs conspiring to cover up murders that were committed by the president’s top advisers.”

  “If this story were to get out”—Michael held up a finger—“number one, we would lose all credibility in the international community. Number two, the CIA would be shut down for good—”

  “That might not be such a bad thing.”

  O’Rourke shook his head. “The CIA does more good for this country than you will ever know. The only time we ever hear about them is when they screw up. Their successes far outweigh their failures. It’s not like they can hold a press conference and announce that the
y’ve recruited one of Saddam Hussein’s top generals to spy for us.”

  “I don’t like the idea of all this secrecy. It’s wrong. It’s the people’s right to know.”

  In a soft voice Michael asked, “Even if it tears the country apart?”

  Liz silently struggled with the question for a moment. “I gave you my word, and I’m not going to go back on it. I might not like this whole mess, but I’m just happy it’s over and you’re safe.”

  “Thank you.”

  Michael’s stomach growled again and Liz said, “I guess someone’s hungry.”

  “I’m starved.”

  “How about I make us a nice quiet dinner for two, and then we spend the rest of the night right here in bed?”

  Michael grinned. “What’s in it for me?”

  Scarlatti laughed. “Oh, you’ll see.” Liz grabbed him by the arm and led him toward the bathroom. “You take a shower and get cleaned up. I’ll go to the store and get some stuff for dinner.” She smacked him on the butt and pushed him toward the bathroom.

  Scarlatti then headed downstairs and grabbed Duke’s leash off the coatrack. The yellow Lab, upon hearing the familiar jingle of his leash, appeared excitedly at Liz’s side, and a moment later they were out the door and on their way to the Georgetown Safeway.

  Director Stansfield looked around the conference table in his office and noted how tired the other attendees were. FBI director Roach sat slouched with his chin resting on his chest, his eyes open but red. Skip McMahon was yawning, and Irene Kennedy was taking her glasses off so she could rub her eyes. It had been a long day, and none of them had gotten much sleep the night before.

  Assessing that any further work would be useless, and that he didn’t have the strength to argue anymore, Stansfield decided it was time to wrap things up. “Skip, I apologize for putting you in this situation, but there is no other option. If we call off the investigation, too many people will want to know why.”

  McMahon shook his head. “It’s a waste of manpower. I have over two hundred agents working on these assassinations, and they sure as hell could be used on other cases . . . cases we can eventually bring to trial.”

  “It’s not an entire waste,” stated Stansfield in his most conciliatory voice. “It’s very important that we find out who these assassins are, even if we can’t bring them to trial.”

  “I’ll give you that. I just don’t want this manhunt to turn into a two-year ordeal and cover-up with hundreds of agents wasting their time.”

  “I agree with you, Skip,” replied Roach, “but there is no other way to do it. It’s important that we find out who the assassins are, and we have to keep the investigation going or the press will go nuts. When the timing is right, I’ll transfer you and put you in charge of something else.”

  McMahon nodded his acceptance. “I know that we have no other choice, but what I can’t accept is Nance and Garret getting away with this scot-free. God, I’d love to get my hands on them.” The senior agent’s face was twisted with anger.

  Stansfield smiled and stood. McMahon’s honesty had grown on him over the last several weeks. The CIA’s top spook walked over and patted McMahon on the shoulder. “I wouldn’t worry too much, Skip. If they step out of line, I’m sure our mystery assassins will give them a call. It’s been a long day. Let’s get some sleep, and we’ll talk in the morning.”

  Everyone nodded in agreement and rose to leave. Stansfield walked them to the door and then asked Kennedy to stay behind for a minute. Stansfield closed the door, and he and Kennedy walked over to the director’s desk. Stansfield began placing several files in his briefcase. “Irene, what is your read on Congressman O’Rourke?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Do you think he knows more than he’s telling us?”

  Irene pursed her lips while she pondered the question. “I suppose it’s a possibility.”

  Stansfield turned and placed a single file in his safe. “I think we should run a check on him, but do it quietly. He’s not the type of person we want to upset, but all the same, I think we need to see if he has any ties to these assassins.”

  Kennedy nodded. “I’ll handle it personally.”

  41

  THE MAROON AUDI DROVE CASUALLY DOWN the streets of Georgetown. The fifty-four-year-old man behind the wheel was a former U.S. intelligence operative turned freelance operative, or “ utility man,” as he was referred to by his fellow spooks. He had received a call from a man for whom he had done a lot of lucrative work over the years. If his old acquaintance was telling the truth, and there was no security, the job would be simple. The unimpressive, gray-bearded man drove past the house twice and parked.

  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 wellworn 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.