COLEMAN FOUND A POORLY LIT PARKING LOT downtown and left the Beamer unlocked with the keys in the ignition. From there he walked the two miles to Adams Morgan. It was a good night for clear thinking. The cool air helped sharpen his senses. He was out of the game and knew it. The FBI would be waiting for him, it was only a question of where and how many agents. If he really had to, he could lose them and go underground, but that would only make him look guilty. For now the game plan would be to act normal.
As Coleman neared his apartment, he became
more aware of his surroundings, looking for things he hadn’t seen
before. The call from Admiral DeVoe had raised his level of paranoia
significantly. By measuring his difficulty in detecting the
surveillance Coleman would be able to tell how interested the FBI
was. If he passed a van with dark-tinted windows, or a four-door
sedan with a driver slouched behind the wheel, he would know the
FBI thought him no more important than the other hundred or so
former commandos they were
investigating.
Coleman walked like a predator, his eyes
taking inventory of everything around him. He was loose physically
but tight mentally. Turning onto his street, he scanned the row of
cars from beginning to end. Nothing: no vans, no trucks. They might
be parked on one of the other streets. He would have to check them
in the morning when he went for a jog. Turning up the steps to his
apartment building, he opened the first door and then used his key
to get through the second one. He climbed to the second floor and
stopped in front of his door. Bending over, he checked the lock for
any signs of its being picked. There were none, but that didn’t
mean it hadn’t been done. There were professionals who could do it
without leaving a mark. Coleman opened the door and entered. After
turning on the lights, he grabbed the remote control off the coffee
table and turned on the TV. With the remote control in hand, he
closed the shades and turned up the volume. Coleman set the remote
down and grabbed a small black sensor about the size of a
garage-door opener out of his pocket. Starting by the TV, he worked
his way around the room, running the box over and under every piece
of furniture. The sensor didn’t detect a single listening device in
the room.
Without turning any lights on, Coleman
checked the kitchen, bathroom, and his bedroom. Again, he found
nothing.
Instead of becoming less tense he grew
more nervous. Not finding any bugs didn’t mean he wasn’t under
surveillance; it could also mean that whoever was watching him was
good. Coleman grabbed a small flashlight out of the top drawer of
his dresser and crawled under his bed, where he kept a box of
interesting but legal items.
The box was always lined up the same way,
the front edge directly under the center bar of his bed frame. He
turned on the flashlight and eyeballed the edge of the box. It was
off center. Someone had been in his
apartment.
Coleman crawled back out and brought the
box with him. Staying on the floor, he put the flashlight in his
teeth and opened the box. Inside was a legally registered Glock
semiautomatic pistol, three clips, a box of ammo, a knife, a pair
of night-vision goggles, and a variety of other things that
wouldn’t be that unusual for a former Navy SEAL to own. Coleman
grabbed the night-vision goggles, and went into the bathroom, where
he whistled out loud and turned on the shower. Sitting on the
toilet, he took off his boots and then walked to the front door. As
quietly as possible, he opened the door and slid into the hallway.
Staying on the balls of his feet, he ran up the carpeted steps to
the top floor. Someone had been in his apartment, and they had been
smart enough not to leave any electronic listening devices behind.
They weren’t down on the street, so that meant one thing . . . they
were in one of the nearby buildings.
Coleman reached the top floor and opened
the service door that led to the roof. Inside was a black metal
ladder with a hatch door at the top. He climbed the ladder and
slowly opened the hatch. As he climbed onto the roof, he was
careful to keep his silhouette beneath the three-foot flange that
ran along all four sides of the roof. Coleman crawled to the front
of the building and peeked over the edge. One month earlier he had
checked to see which apartments were vacant in the surrounding
buildings. Coleman started with the building right across the
street. He counted up three stories and in two windows from the
left. Pushing himself up just a little farther over the edge, he
stared intently at the black hole and watched for movement. It was
too dark to see more than a foot or two into the apartment, so he
put on his night-vision goggles.
Black turned into green and white, and
after several adjustments the goggles penetrated the dark, empty
room. There they were, a cluster of long, black objects. He could
plainly see the row of directional microphones lined up along the
bottom edge of the windowsill, all of them pointing across the
street at his apartment. Behind them on tripods were several
cameras, and then . . . something moved. Coleman squinted and it
moved again. A man was standing a ways back from the window
drinking something. Coleman slid under the wall and crawled back to
the hatch.
When Coleman got back to the apartment, he
analyzed the situation. As a SEAL he’d been trained in
countersurveillance tactics and knew what represented good
surveillance . . . the people watching
him from across the
street were good. Coleman grabbed his jacket and brought it into
the bathroom. Holding the digital phone by the rushing water of the
shower he punched in the number to Michael’s pager and entered nine
seven times.
McMahon stood in the middle of the empty
apartment. A pair of large headphones covered his ears. He took a
big gulp of coffee and glanced over at the other two agents sitting
at the table in the dining room. A small red filter light
illuminated their game of gin. They were on a twenty-minute
rotation. Every noise in Coleman’s apartment was taped, and
everyone who left or entered the building was photographed. More
than a dozen tail cars of assorted makes and models were
strategically positioned around the city, and a chopper was on
twenty-four-hour standby, its engines warm and pilots
waiting.
Michael was sitting upstairs in his den
holding a mug of hot coffee when his beeper went off. He picked it
up and looked at the small display. All nines. Michael set it down
and thought about Coleman. Next, he looked at the tape of Arthur’s
confession, and a plan started to form in his head. Going to the
media would cause more harm than good, but Nance and Garret had to
pay. They were going down, one way or another—whatever it
took.
Stansfield climbed wearily into the back
of his limo. The night had been one of many questions and no sleep.
The large door at the end of the executive
parking garage at Langley
opened revealing the early-morning sun, and Stansfield lowered his
tired eyes. The director had spent the entire night in the
Operations Center trying to piece together the events surrounding
Arthur’s abduction. Two important facts had been brought to
Stansfield’s attention. First, strong traces of sodium pentothal
had been found in Arthur’s blood. Second, a fact discovered while
his people were reviewing Arthur’s security tapes, Stu Garret and
Mike Nance had visited Arthur the previous week. Garret had
lied.
Stansfield found out about the sodium
pentothal just after midnight, but the security team that had been
dispatched to Arthur’s estate didn’t discover the videotape of
Garret and Nance until 6:45 A.M. He had an 8 A.M. meeting at the White House, but instead of going
straight into D.C., his entourage was taking a slight detour. He
had to pick up an uninvited and, he was sure, unwanted guest.
Stansfield’s limousine, along with its lead and chase cars, cut
through the light Saturday-morning traffic. At about
7:35 A.M. they arrived at Director Roach’s
house.
Roach climbed into the limo, and the group
of cars pulled away. As the director of the FBI settled into the
backseat, he asked, “I assume this has something to do with Arthur
turning up dead on Stu Garret’s lawn?”
Stansfield shifted so he could face Roach.
“Yes, it does.”
“What is Mr. Garret doing associating with
someone like Arthur?”
“I don’t know.” Stansfield shook his head
and frowned.
“I would imagine you want this to be kept
as quiet as possible.”
Stansfield’s face hinted that he was
struggling between doing what was comfortable and trying something
new. “At this point I’m undecided. Our two agencies have worked in
the past to keep things like this quiet, but I’m not so sure I
wouldn’t prefer you to raise hell on this one. . . . There’s no
doubt this is your jurisdiction. Arthur was kidnapped, transported
across state lines, and murdered.” Stansfield bit his lip and shook
his head. “Brian, Arthur was not the most law-abiding person we had
at the Agency. Most of that had to do with the type of things we
expected him to do, but he also did a lot of things that were not
approved through the proper channels. That’s why he was forced out
two years ago. We had lost control of him. To be blunt, his death
is a blessing. He was a walking time bomb with enough secrets in
his head to do an incredible amount of damage to not only our
country but quite a few of our allies.”
“So you would like me to sit on
it?”
“Yes and no. I do not want what Arthur did
for the Agency to become public, but there is an issue I need
resolved, and to do that I think I’m going to need you to threaten
an all-out investigation.”
“This is where Garret comes
in?”
“Yes, Arthur was not dumped on his lawn
without reason. He and Nance were involved in something with
Arthur.”
“Are you sure?”
“As sure as I can be at this point. . . .
Last night, after Arthur was kidnapped and before his
body was
discovered, I went to the White House to brief the National
Security Council. When I told them that Arthur had been abducted,
Garret became noticeably agitated. So much so that I had to stop in
midsentence and ask him if he knew Arthur personally. Garret said
no . . . that he had only heard of him through Mike Nance.”
Stansfield frowned. “You know as well as I do, Stu Garret doesn’t
show concern for anyone unless he stands to lose something. Later,
when I told them that Arthur’s body had been discovered on Garret’s
lawn, he almost had a nervous
breakdown.”
“Did he admit to any involvement with
Higgins?”
“No, he still denied
it.”
“What did Nance
say?”
“He wasn’t at the meeting. He was tied up
somewhere else. I left the White House a little more than
suspicious. Garret was hiding something, and my suspicion was soon
backed up by two disturbing facts. Arthur’s autopsy revealed sodium
pentothal in his blood. He was interrogated, but whoever did it
must have only wanted a specific piece of information; there
wouldn’t have been time for more. We also have a surveillance video
from Arthur’s security room with Garret and Nance on it. They
visited him last Saturday, and Nance also came alone on
Thursday—which means Garret lied to me about not knowing
Arthur.”
“So what role would you like me to
play?”
“I need you to threaten a full-scale
investigation. We’ll give them two options. They can either sit
down with my people and tell them everything they know under the
protection of the national secrecy act, or they can give a deposition to you
and your agents and risk prosecution.”
Roach thought about it for a minute. “As
you said earlier, this case is under the jurisdiction of the FBI.
What if at some point I decide to pursue the investigation
regardless of any deal you may have struck with Nance and
Garret?”
“That’s entirely up to you.”
Stu Garret paced frantically behind his
desk with a cigarette in hand. Mike Nance sat stiff and upright on
the couch. He’d been watching Garret for the last ten minutes,
waiting for the Valium to kick in, straining to control the urge to
bash Garret over the head with a lamp. He had to stay calm . . .
above everything he had to stay calm.
Garret stopped and pointed his cigarette
at Nance. “I can’t believe I let you talk me into this. I must have
been out of my fucking mind when I agreed to get into bed with
Arthur.”
Nance bit down on his lip and said, “Stu,
do you think your emotional tirades are doing us any
good?”
“Hey, don’t give me that cool-as-ice
attitude. You deal with it your way, and I’ll deal with it my way.
. . . Fuck!” Garret took a vacuumlike pull off his cigarette and
his face turned bright red.
Nance stood abruptly and raised his voice.
“All right, I’ll do things your way! Sit down and shut up! We have
a meeting with Stansfield in ten minutes, and we are going to have
to come up with some answers as to why Arthur’s body ended up on
your lawn . . . and if you don’t get control of your
emotions ,
Stansfield will tear you to shreds!” Nance stared hard at
Garret.
Garret exhaled and his shoulders slumped.
“I’m sorry, Mike, I just can’t believe all of this is happening so
fast. What in the hell are we going to do? Stansfield is going to
want to know why Arthur was found at my house. He knows I was lying
to him last night when I told him I’d never met Arthur. What in the
fuck am I going to tell him? What am I going to tell the press?
What am I going to tell the cops? They’re gonna want to talk to me,
too.”
Nance put a hand on his shoulder. “Stu,
one problem at a time. Don’t worry about the cops and don’t worry
about the press. For the next hour, I need you to stay calm and
keep your mouth shut. Stansfield is our main problem. Now just sit
down and relax while I tell you what we’re going to
do.”
Garret sank into the couch and stuck a
cigarette in his mouth.
Nance paced slowly across the room. “I
have a good idea for damage control.” With his hands on his hips,
he turned and said, “We tell Stansfield the
truth.”
Garret blurted out a loud cackle. “Have
you lost your fucking mind! . . . Yeah . . . sure . . . let’s tell
him the truth . . .”
Nance stuck his finger in Garret’s face.
“Stu, this is the last time I’m going to tell you to stay quiet and
get control of yourself. Don’t forget, Arthur put a price tag on
your head before he was killed, and I’m the only one who can
rescind the order.” Nance stared as hard and as deep as he could
into Garret’s eyes, making sure there was no doubt that he
was serious. Garret tried to speak, but Nance cut him off.
“Shut up, Stu. Just shut up for the next five
minutes!”
Garret bit down on his tongue and
nodded.
“We are going to tell Stansfield about our
recruitment of Arthur to help get the president’s budget passed.
We’ll tell him that Arthur helped blackmail Congressman Moore. It
is simple, it is the truth, and Stansfield will buy it because we
can prove it. We admit to some wrongdoing and Stansfield goes away
satisfied.”
“What about the press? I can’t tell them
that.”
“Stu, I’m not going to say it again! We
are talking about Stansfield right now! We’ll talk about the press
later.”
“Should we tell
Jim?”
“No! That way he’ll have complete
deniability. We can tell him after the meeting that we wanted to
protect him. Just let me do the talking, and whatever you do, don’t
lose your cool.”
Nance finished filling Garret in on the
plan, and when he was done, they went down to the Situation Room.
Nance stopped when he entered the room and looked for Stansfield.
He wasn’t there yet, but the Joint Chiefs, the secretary of state,
and the secretary of defense were. Nance quickly realized they
could not be present when he gave Stansfield their
excuse.
Nance walked to the far end of the room
where the president was sitting and whispered into his ear, “Sir,
for reasons I can’t discuss right now, I need you to excuse the
Joint Chiefs, the secretary of defense, and the secretary of state
from the meeting.”
“Won’t that look rather
unusual?”
“Please, trust me, sir. We need to talk to
Director Stansfield alone. . . . It’s for the best. I’ll explain
later.”
Stevens hesitated for a second and then
looked at Garret and made the connection. Clearing his throat, he
said, “Gentlemen, there has been a slight change of plans. I am
going to need to talk to Director Stansfield alone. If the rest of
you could wait for us in the Cabinet Room, we’ll join you just as
soon as possible.”
The generals and admirals all stood and
gave Garret a look as they headed for the door. They all knew who
Arthur Higgins was and wanted to know why he had been found dead on
the chief of staff’s lawn. They continued out the door, and Nance
closed it behind them.
Stevens asked, “Are you two going to tell
me what in the hell is going on?”
“Mr. President, sir . . . I think it would
be best if we waited for Director Stansfield to get here,” replied
Nance in his cool and detached voice.
“Why?”
“You are going to want complete
deniability on this one, sir.”
Stevens frowned. “What in the hell have
you two been up to?” The president looked to Garret for the answer,
but Nance gave it.
“Sir, this will not affect your
presidency. You are just going to have to trust me that it will be
best if you look surprised when we tell Director Stansfield what
our connection with Arthur was.”